


Concerning The Games

by ObsessedWithMerlin



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11883102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsessedWithMerlin/pseuds/ObsessedWithMerlin
Summary: Peeta's name was called for the 73rd Games, not the 74th. His confession of love for Katniss still happened. Now, as a victor, how will Peeta win over Katniss. Especially when Prim's name is called for the 74th and Katniss is thrown into the nightmare he just escaped. How will the rebellion spark without a double victory? Will Katniss still fall for the boy with the bread?





	1. The Reaping

Katniss:  
"Primrose Everdeen."  
There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Prim was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen so remote that I'd not even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserae, refused to let her do the same? One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered. Just like Peeta.  
Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.  
"Prim," my scream echoes off the sympathetic faces surrounding the square. I feel his eyes on me but I don't stop. "Prim," I push through the crowd and into the aisle.  
Prim has just reached the stairs. Two peacekeepers take my arms to hold me back, they assume I would try to stop her. People have tried in the past, usually it's the parents. A fight makes for a good show, so they don't hold too hard. I'm easily able to pull away but I know the only way to keep her safe, and it isn't trying to fight.  
"I volunteer!" I screech. "I volunteer!" From the corner of my eye I can see Peeta jump from his seat but I know Haymitch will stop him from doing anything stupid. Right now, all I'm focused on is getting Prim away from the stage. "I volunteer as tribute." My voice is loud and devoid of fear. I don't care what happens to me, I won't let Prim suffer the atrocities Peeta went thru.  
I'm by Prim's side in a moment, putting my body in between my baby sister and the stage. Between her and a certain death. "Prim, go find Mom."  
"No," she cries, latching herself onto me.  
"Prim, go find Mom, it's going to be okay, go find Mom." I repeat. She needs to go. I need her away from here.  
Her arms are ripped from my waist. I look up, expecting to see the mask of a peacekeeper but instead find my gorgeous blue eyes. "Up you go, Katniss." The resignation in his voice is haunting.  
I nod once. I hear Prim crying and begging me not to but I know she's safe with Peeta. The peacekeepers will trust a victor to keep from interfering with the ceremony. I stop the tremors threatening to shake my body and climb the stairs.  
Effie Trinket is hardly containing her excitement. Having a victor last year and now a volunteer. She asks me for my name although she already knows it. Everyone knows my name, I'm the girl Peeta Mellark fought so hard to get home to. This has the Capital's thumbprints all over it. Prim had stolen everyone's heart during the Friends and Family interviews last year. I doubt they imagined I would volunteer, but they weren't going to complain.  
Effie continues to exclaim how excited she is to have District 12's first volunteer. My eyes find Peeta and Prim still standing at the bottom of the stage, although he has moved them back and off to the right. Prim is quietly crying into his shirt while Peeta whispers to her. I can only imagine what he is saying.  
When she asks for a round of applause, not one person claps. But slowly, everyone brings their right hands to their mouths and kisses three fingers before raising them in the air. It's a gesture we use at funeral or when you're sending off something precious. It's strange how different my life has been ever since Peeta's Interview before his own games. And volunteering for Prim seemed to only reaffirm that bond. I wasn't just someone who was tolerated by my family, I was something to my district now. Something more than just a tribute.  
If I die, I know Peeta will protect my family. His Victor Compensation is more than enough to provide for them and Gale will bring them game from the woods. At the thought of my best friend I search the crowds for him. It doesn't take long before I find him. He has moved to the edge of the aisle and is staring intently at me. He gives me a nod.  
It's a signal. We've had a pact ever since we were kids that if one of us was ever called, we would take care of the others family. We would make sure they knew were to go to say goodbye, be there to support each other thru the games. . . and if we didn't make it home, to make sure they didn't starve.  
I see movement on the stage and realize the boy has already been chosen. I had missed his name. He's small, probably the same age as Prim. And he's already crying. Effie tells us to shake hands and he wipes his nose before reaching out. I barely hesitate to shake his snot-covered hand, he's just scared, I remind myself. I can't help but wonder if he had any brothers who had been eligible to volunteer for. But then, what I did was an abnormality. Family ties only went so far on reaping day.  
I could see Peeta mouthing words to me but was too far away too hear or see them. But it still helped comfort me because I knew he would be there throughout this mess.  
Then we're being ushered towards the doors of the Justice Building. I'm led into a room with a similar design as Peeta's drawing room. I want nothing more than to be in the safety of his arms right now but I push those thoughts away and find my inner huntress. I'm going to need her if I plan on getting back to my family.  
The doors open and my mother and sister rush in. I take them both in a hug. "Im okay. Im fine." I reassure them and myself.  
I pull back and then kneel down in front of Prim. "Don't take anything from them, Prim. It's not worth putting your name in more times. Sell the cheese from your goat. Gale will still bring you meat. And Peeta will take care of anything else, okay?"  
"You can hunt." Her voice is scratchy from her earlier tears.  
"Yeah." I whisper.  
"You could win. Like Peeta." I nod my head and wrap her in a hug. I look up at my mother and then detangled myself from Prim  
. "You can't check out again. Not like when dad died. You're all she has left. You have to be there for her. Do you understand."  
"Yes," my mother whispered.  
"Don't cry." I demand. I hug her just as the doors open again.  
"No," Prim sobs and tries to grab me but she's pulled out the door with my mother. It slams shut, leaving me in silence.  
Not two seconds later, Gale appears. He wraps his arms around me immediately. "You can win this, Catnip."  
"I don't know how." I mumble into his shoulder.  
"Mellark will show you. You get to a bow—"  
"They might not have a bow," I interrupt.  
"They will if you show them how good you are. They just want a good show, that's all. You'll already be a Capital favorite." He shook me a little. "You can win this. You know how to hunt."  
"Animals."  
"It's no different, Katniss."  
"Yes it is," I argue, thinking about Peeta's nightmares, his flashbacks, his regrets. "They think. They breathe. They move. They have families of their own. There's twenty four of us, Gale, and only one comes out."  
"Yeah, and it's gonna be you."  
The door opens and the peacekeepers try to pull him out like they did my family. But unlike Prim he's able to give me one last hug before another peacekeepers comes and they both drag him out. "Hey, I'll see you soon." He says as the door closes.  
I wait a few more minutes, thinking that my visitors are done. Peeta is the only other person I really care about and the mentors are waiting at the train station. It's the first year District 12 will ever have more than one.  
So the next time the door opens, I'm surprised to say the least to see Mr Mellark. We still trade squirrels but other than that, I have no real connection to him. Peeta's witch of a mother basically threw a party when his name was called. When he returned that first night, she had attempted to raise her hand against him in anger. Well, let's just say Peeta made clear she would never touch him again. Although Peeta saw his family in passing, they've never been the same.  
"Katniss."  
"Mr. Mellark."  
"I wanted to thank you," my head snapped up. That was certainly not what I was expecting. "When Peeta came home from the games, he had an altercation with my wife. I'm ashamed to say I let her keep me from my own son when he needed us most but I did. You were there for him. He loves you."  
I looked away at that admission. Peeta and I, while we have gotten close, have yet to use that word. Actually, Peeta hasn't used it since his first interview. There were plenty of times when he hinted at it, but he knew not to push me.  
"I would also offer to keep an eye on the girl." That startled me. "But between Hawthorne and my son, I doubt she will want for much. Nevertheless, I'm going to ask you to come home."  
"Why?"  
"Peeta's been through enough, even before the games," he got that look of shame again. "He deserves to find happiness." With that he turned and left, he didn't even wait until the peacekeepers came.  
As I waited for anyone else to come, I noticed a bag on the table next to where he was standing. It had the bakery logo on it. I looked inside and found around a dozen freshly baked sugar cookies. They were my favorite because each cookie had a different design on them, usually done by my favorite Mellark. I couldn't help but get a little tight throated when I fully took in the baker's actions. These cookies sold for a pretty penny in the bakery, for him to give me a dozen, well, let's just hope the witch doesn't find out.  
My next visitor was also unexpected. Madge Undersee, the mayors daughter, and I had been sitting at the same lunch table for a few years. Yet we rarely partook in any vivid conversations that are necessary for a strong friendship.  
"Hello Madge." I say politely.  
"Katniss, I have a favor to ask of you."  
I raise an eyebrow. I'm going into the hunger games and she has a favor. She holds out her hand.  
"It was my aunts." In her hand is a small golden pin. It has a circular band around the outside and a strange bird in the center. It was delicate without being fragile. And in the beak of the bird was an arrow. I noticed then that the bird was a Mockingjay. They were song birds but the stories behind them was what was remarkable. During the dark days, the Capital created Jabberjays to copy plans from the rebels and they were able to report back with the information. When the rebels began to feed false information through the Jabberjays, the Capital quit keeping them, sending them out to die off, since there was no way for them to reproduce. That was when the birds did something unexpected. The male Jabberjays mated with Mocking birds, creating a new species, the Mockingjay.  
"Would you wear it? As your token in the games, I mean." She rambled.  
I smiled for the first time that day, it wasn't a full smile, those were reserved for Prim and occasionally Peeta, but it was the best I could have hoped for. I was taken back by the fact she wanted me to wear something with family value. Usually, children from poorer districts, were given a token from their stylist. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but, it was nice to have something from home.  
I knew our time was running out so I gave Madge an awkward hug and then she was gone. The next time the doors opened it was time to leave. The ride to the train station was short but extremely painful. The boy tribute was crying big heavy sobs and over the top of him, Effie was trying to explain all the perks of this opportunity.  
"Well, I have to say, it's quite a pleasure to finally meet you, Katniss. Everyone will be so jealous. They're still raving about the story of 'your boy with the bread.'" She says, referring to the interview last year.  
I was being stubborn and was upset that they had come into our little house in the Seam and were forcing me to do an interview about a boy that apparently loved me. They had asked how I knew Peeta when Prim jumped in and stole the show. She started running her mouth about how I hated going into town but never complained about stopping by the bakery to look at the cakes, and how I was never actually looking at the pastries. I had no idea she was so observant. I thought it couldn't get any worse when Prim mentioned not being able to sleep. I nearly slapped my hand over her mouth. She then proceeded in telling all of Panem that when I was too tired to sing her back to sleep, I'd tell her stories about Dad or other things. Including the story of the boy with the bread, which she had cleverly figured out was about the baker that 'was always staring at me.'  
That was when all hell had broken loose in the Capital. The sponsors ate up the story and the way I told it to my baby sister like a fairytale. Peeta became the most popular victor since Finnick Odair, instead of being a dashing boy with a playboy smile, he was the boy next door who was doing everything he could to get back to the girl he took a beating for all those years ago.  
Peeta never killed an ally. Never took a cheap shot. But also never stepped down from a challenge. In the end he killed Beorn, it wasn't quick or easy, and I knew the terror that had stemmed from it, but it was true. Peeta had defeated all odds to return home. To return to me. A girl he didn't even know and one who didn't know him.  
I ignore Effie's comment but she seems content to continue as if I hadn't. People are waiting at the station but it's more orderly than in many districts. The only real fever is from the Capital staff. Sometimes I wonder if they gave a small payment to those who actually come to see the tributes off, there only ever seemed to be enough to hide the fact that no one really came.  
But that's fine with me. We take a few shots waving goodbye to the District people and then are led into a parlor filled with more sweets and drinks than we could ever eat. The boy next to me lights up when we pass a pastry cart. He's a little chubbier, I notice, than any normal kid from District twelve. He family must have money. He grabs a silver plate and starts piling these white circles with holes in the middle. When he has about six or seven he comes and sits down in a plush chair across from me. He digs in and about halfway thru his first one, his face and hands are covered with the white powder and he has a red jelly on his chin. I have to look away. He was just crying over the fact he is being sent to the Hunger Games and now he's stuffing his face like he doesn't have a care in the world.  
"Want some?" Crumbs fly out of his mouth as he asks.  
I glare at the little merchant boy and he visibly shrinks back from me. I'm not trying to be mean. Im just letting him know that if he continues, I'm not going to even attempt to be civil. A whoosh comes from behind me and footsteps break my glare.  
"Mr. Mellark!" More crumbs fly from his mouth and the only reason I don't go over there is because it registers whose name he called.  
I turn around and see Peeta and Hamitch standing behind us. "Peeta," I breathe. His eyes cut to mine before returning to the boy.  
"Tommy." Peeta acknowledges. "This is Hamitch. Hamitch, this is Tommy Fieldsworth and you know Katniss." He whispers the last part as if he was dreading it.  
Hamitch looks down at the boy and scowls, I have to admit, his is scarier at the moment. He walks over to the refreshment table and grabs the expensive looking whiskey. Instead of pouring it into one of the crystal glasses, he just takes the entire bottle and plops down on the sofa next to Tommy. Peeta sits on the arm of my chair.  
Before Hamitch takes a drink he offered some to Peeta. "Really, Hamitch?"  
Hamitch shrugs off the look Peeta throws at him and takes a long drink. "What about you, Sweetheart?"  
I remember the first and last time I made the mistake of accepting whiskey from Haymitch. I swear the burn in my throat stayed for hours and Peeta was pissed. Not once since the first time I caught him drunk had he touched anything more than a tart lemonade again. So I decline it, even if I felt like I could use a drink. The fierce glare that passes over Peeta's face made me glad I made the right choice.  
"If you're not going to contribute any positive input to this conversation, go drink in your room."  
"Careful, boy. Or I might do just that." Haymitch threatens, even slurred it still sounds serious. Haymitch takes no more than three more gulps and he's puking all over Tommy's shoes. The smell is terrible but the strange wail that comes from Tommy is worse. I mean seriously, is the kid twelve or two?  
"Katniss, how bout you go to your room. It's the third door on the right. I'll take care of Hamitch and Tommy."  
I nod, happy for the escape. The room is dark, even though I know there's still light left in the day. I go to the window and turn down the tint, allowing natural light into the room. The room isn't that spacious, considering we're on a train, but still the biggest room I've ever been given to sleep in. A bed with a black comforter and white pillows is in the middle with a mirror on the left side and a vanity to the right. A small closet lines the opposite wall. Suddenly feeling tired, I decide to try a nap.  
In the closet I find a royal blue long sleeve and a pair of black leggings. The leggings are made of a stretchy material that feels almost plasticey to the touch but is very flexible and the shirt is so soft, like the inside of a brand new sweatshirt. I let my hair out of the bun my mother pleated and climbed onto of the bed. It's like a cloud and I easily fall asleep.  
The next time I wake the natural light has almost disappeared. I sit up and brush my hair with the comb from the vanity.  
"You're awake."  
I look up and see Peeta leaning against my doorframe. I manage to find a smile for him. He takes that as it is, an invitation, and comes in. I'm currently doing nothing but staring at the wall so Peeta grabs a remote from the vanity. I didn't know what it controlled but he starts pressing buttons and a television lowers down from the ceiling. "Do you want to watch the recaps?"  
I shrug but by now, Peeta's used to my no answer responses. He flips it on and Ceaser Flickerman's botoxed face fills the screen. "Good Evening Panem! Tonight is the night you've been waiting for for the past year. The chance to see this years tributes!" His voice speeds up and slows down and becomes high pitched and then drops again many times before he finishes three simple sentences.  
"As always, we'll start with District 1 and work our way up." The screen cuts to a square very different from our own. Although most Hunger Game features are shown in the districts, the reapings are not. The first time the districts see the tributes are during the Tribute Parade. I can see why when I watch the differences between the ceremonies.  
"It's insane, isn't it?" Peeta say as he leans his forehead on my shoulder. He's sitting on my right but further back than me. Our legs are pressed so close if we were any closer I would be sitting on his lap.  
I watch them introduce a girl named Glimmer and her partner Marvel. Their escort introduces them as the districts 'champion tributes.' There was no bowls, no chance, no name calling. They've been training for this their whole life. "These guys will be tough. But if you can get them away from the food and supplies, that's your best shot."  
"How do I do that?" I watch as the other half of the Career pack similarly are chosen. Cato and Clove.  
"You're gonna have to use your surroundings. One year, a girl from six set fire to their stash. Given, they hunted her down and killed her for it, someone from nine won that year. Another year the victor destroyed a dam and washed away the food. Someone even caused an avalanche during the 52nd."  
We watch the rest in a similar fashion. Peeta points out which ones are most dangerous and which will be most vulnerable. He warns me to watch out for the pairs from three and five, technology and energy, because they will most likely be the keenest and could be very deadly if given the chance to set both physical and psychological traps. He notices flaws in some of the tributes 'strategies' like the girl from seven who tries to play the damsel in distress card but has most likely been swinging an axe for at least the past six years.  
He also suggests to stay away from tributes under the age of fourteen. "They're an easy kill, yes, but it won't gain you much popularity. But if you show them mercy it could lose you the statistics so it better to just avoid them. This includes the boys from 4 and 9 and the girls from 10 and 11. And of course Tommy, but you never want to kill your district partner. When you get home, it'll only hurt you when you have to face everyone."  
"When?" He didn't say if I get home, he said when.  
He looks at me as if I'm crazy. "I'm getting you home, Katniss."  
My response was interrupted by Ceaser. "And boy do I have a surprise for you. Wait until you see what happened in District 12 this afternoon."  
I watch as Peeta and Haymitch take their places by Mayor Undersee. Haymitch is already drunk enough to be stumbling around but Peeta makes sure he stays somewhat upright, saving him from a particularly close call with the edge of the stage. They skip the video and now Effie is beginning the drawing. I watch her hand and can't help but feel anger and the way it flitters around before picking the only one in the bowl that say Primrose EVERDEEN ON IT!  
She reads her name and instead of the silence that was being undertook during the reaping, Ceaser says, "That's right folks! Our favorite little sister of the infamous love of Peeta Mellark. But watch what happens next." He whispers before they cut back to the film.  
I can see me physically snap into action. "Prim!" I sound even more desperate than I thought I did. The camera zooms in on Peeta and he looks just as devastated as I felt in that moment. The picture is back on me as I struggle against the peacekeepers before finally shouting, "I volunteer!"  
Peeta jumped out of his seat like he wanted to stop me but Haymitch had sobered up enough from hearing Prim's name to hold him back with a hand on his shoulder. Prim grew on everyone and Haymitch was no exception. The first time Prim had come with me to see Peeta she had picked some wildflowers from the meadow. She had given them to Haymitch as we passed him on his front porch.  
When I reached the stage my argument with Prim was clear with the high tech Capital microphones. ". . . It's going to be okay, go find Mom."  
Peeta ripped his shoulder free of Haymitch's grip and jumped down from the front of the stage. They zoomed in on him pulling her away from me and caught the few words he said. "Up you go, Katniss." The tears in his eyes were visible as he lifted Prim with an arm around her waist and walked her away from the fray. I watched as he struggled with Prim before she finally gave into the sobs and he mumbled soft words to her. Thankfully, the microphones couldn't pick up that.  
Tommy Fieldsworth's name was called and they showed Effie call him and him start to walk up to the stage but then the cameras cut back to Peeta who was now looking directly at me. Now, with the rest of the country, I could read what he was saying.  
"You'll be okay."  
"We'll be fine."  
"I'll find a way to keep you safe."  
And other things just as endearing.  
Caesar's voice cut into the video. And he narrated a bit, oohing and ahhing. Then they were back at the studio. "There you have it folks, were up for another exciting year with the Star-Crossed lovers from District 12. This is Caesar Flickerman. Good Night Panem!"  
The screen freezes on a picture of all the tributes. Peeta turns off the television but before he can leave I curl up and tuck myself into his side. His arms come around me like a shield. "I'm scared Peeta."  
"I know Katniss. I am too."


	2. The Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games

Peeta:  
~Last year~  
"Congratulations, Mr Mellark."  
"Thank you, Sir." I say as President Snow crowns my head with the golden victor crown.  
The journey home left a foul taste in my mouth. I had told all of Panem I was in love with Katniss Everdeen. Would she be there when I arrived? I wasn't stupid enough to believe she would fall into my arms. She wasn't one to make the likes of a gold digger and that was all I was looking at for a future. No one could love me after the things I had just done. Especially not Katniss. Katniss would sooner punch me in the face for the things I said in my interview than ever think about loving me back. That was, if Gale Hawthorne didn't kill me first.  
"You ready, boy?" Haymitch asks.  
"As I'll ever be." The station is approaching quickly and I can begin to make out the crowd surrounding it.  
Haymitch must sense me tense up cause he lays his hand on my shoulder. "They're not going to care what you did, Peeta. All that's going to matter is that you found a way home to them."  
"Haymitch how am I supposed to face them? Face her? I thought I was going to die. . . I never would have said anything if I thought there was even a chance I could come out of that arena alive."  
"Well it's a damn good thing you did. And anyway, you saw the interview, she obviously doesn't hate you." But I can't help thinking she should.  
The train comes to a stop and I take a deep breath in the shadows of the curtains. People outside the window are cheering, it's the second time in Panem history District 12 would be able to celebrate after the games. I search the crowd and see Rye, standing off to the corner. He's the only person form my family that had bothered to come. I tell myself that I'm okay with that. That it doesn't hurt. . . Ive found that the more I lie to myself, the more it starts to work.  
I push through the adoring crowds to get the Rye. I can see the tears in his eyes. "Peeta-bread." The name, something Rye has called me since we were little, doesn't seem to fit. He used to call our brother Brandon, Bran-muffin, but stopped when we lost him to mom. He just couldn't take the abuse anymore without getting crusted. Now that I too had lost my innocence, I figured Rye would never call me that again.  
He jerks me into a bear hug, it's full of hard slaps on the back and home. "Rye." I choke out.  
"You," his voice breaks. "You did it. Welcome home." He pulls me back into a hug and then starts to lead me away from the crowd. I just want to go home and I tell him that. We decide to stop by to see dad first. So instead of heading to whatever festivities they have set up in the town square, we head across town to the Bakery.  
It's oddly quiet when we enter the shop. I hear Rye curse. "What?" I ask him.  
"We told her not to." He looks apologetic and I know it can only be one thing. Mother.  
"What'd she do?"  
Rye just shakes his head. "We told her not too."  
By then we had reached the top of the stair which lead to our home above the shop. And then I hear it, the unusually loud and quick movements. I freeze. Since the games it has seemed as if all my senses have heightened, and I know the footsteps upstairs were not those of my family.  
"She threw a party." I sigh. So much for solitude. Other than Rye and my father, there was only one other person I wanted to see, and she sure as hell wasn't going to be up there. "I'm not going in there."  
Rye nods, sympathy clear in his eyes. "I'll let them know. They should understand.''  
"They should. But she won't."  
"Don't worry about it Peeta, Dad and I will keep her calm the best we can. She won't make a scene in public."  
I turn and walk back down the stairs and out the door. The sun is just starting to set. I used to enjoy watching the sunset. But now it doesn't give the district a glow like it had before. It only serves as to make the sky darker and the air around me thicker. The mines are released at sunset and with them lots of coal dust from the elevators. It's a wonder the pollution levels are as low as they are.  
I never thought I would walk these streets again. The shops down Main Street and Bond Street are the only ones that are given permission to have their electricity on after eight. This usually isn't a problem in the summer or early fall, but it definitely hurt most businesses during the cold months. The Bakery is luck, although it isn't located on either street, it's popular enough to have a few extra coins that could go for a small permit. This allows us to have our ovens on after and before the specified hours. We have to bake in candle light, but it's more than most have.  
Were the streets meet in the center of town, is the square. The Justice Building is there. As well as the place you can get the tesserae. Everything happens in the square. Our few District Celebrations, the Reapings, public announcements. I've always found the Festivals hard to swallow. How could we celebrate in the same place we sentence children to death? But I always held my tongue and kept my head down. It's better to never raise attention to you, good or bad. Now, as a Victor, every eye in the country would be on me for the rest of my life.  
I get to the square and spot Haymitch. As my mentor, he was supposed to attend something with the Mayor before he was free to retire for the next few months. It looks as if he had just finished and stopped by the drink cart. I go to join him. The Justice Hall looms over us as the fiddlers play a traditional folk song.  
"Boy," Haymitch greets. "I would've thought you'd be enjoying the comforts of your home."  
I just shake my head. "My mother threw a party."  
Haymitch's nose turns up in distaste. I had told him about a portion of my life before the Reaping when we were pooling ideas for a strategy. He doesn't know all of it but he knows enough to get what I was hinting at. "Good thing I picked these up for you then."  
He places a set of keys into my hand. "House 06. It's across the street and a few down from mine."  
I roll the keys around in my hand. "Thank you."  
He lays a hand on my shoulder as he starts to walk away. "You can join me for a drink anytime you feel you need one."  
I watch him leave. I can't imagine myself taking him up on that offer anytime soon. I'm not going to be a drunk. I won't do that to myself or what's left of my family. I know plenty of people drink, but I have a feeling once I start I won't be able to stop. No, I need to find a different way to numb the pain.  
"Peeta!" I hear someone yell from across the courtyard. It's Danny from school. I know it's rude but before his drunk ass can start making his way over to me, I duck around a group of people and leave the square. I'm really not ready to deal with anyone right now. But I know there's one person I have to.  
I start making my way towards the Seam. I only have to ask one person for directions as to which house it is. It seems my admission had softened the people enough to where they would help me, even if I was a merchant. Or maybe they were hoping for a good show. Either way, it didn't matter. I found the small house and knocked in the door.  
A cute girl with missing teeth and two braids opens the door. I feel a smile form on my face, she reminds me of Katniss. The girl tilts her head as she stares at me, like she's trying to place me. I bend down so I'm face to face with her. "I'm Peeta."  
Her entire face lights up. "I'm Posy. We's watched you on the screen."  
My smile falls but I grab onto a sliver of it and don't let go. "Is your brother home, Posy?"  
She nods enthusiastically and runs into the house, presumably to get Gale. I have no idea why I'm here or what I'm going to say. Maybe I'm hoping he will kill me. But I know if he tries I would stop him. Not because I value my life but because the penalty for killing a victor would cripple any family. And although I know they lied about being cousins, Katniss is a part of his family.  
"Peeta?" A voice way to young to be Gale's brings me out of my thoughts. A mini-me of Hawthorne stood at the end of the hallway of the small house.  
Posy comes running around him with a big grin. The little girl is missing multiple teeth. "Posy, I meant Gale."  
Her little brow furrows. "But no one ever comes to see Gale."  
"Is this about Katniss?" The boy asks.  
Posy turns and loudly shushes him. "We're not supposed to talk about Peeta and Katniss. Gale will get angry."  
Mini-Hawthorne bends a little to talk to her. "Gale's hunting. He can't hear from the woods." He froze as if realizing what he just said. His eyes frightful, he turns to look at me.  
Knowing what the boy feared, that my stay at the Capital had corrupted me or even my merchant status had put me on the side of the law, I put his fears to rest with: "My father buys Katniss' squirrels."  
He visibly relaxes. "I'm Rory."  
I nod in acknowledgement. "So Gale's hunting?"  
"Yeah, but you can stay and wait for him if you want."  
"No, I'll just talk to him some other time." I say. Part of me is relieved that I can push this off, but the other part just wants to get it over with. I can't tell which part is stronger.  
I leave the Hawthorne's and start to make my way back home. I almost wish there to be some lingerers from the surprise party. I'm sure my mother didn't stop the party the moment her guest of honor didn't show up. She would act like everything was fine and then lay in wait for a moment to strike. Whether with words or rolling pins. If there's still some people there, then it'll give her a chance to cool of thru the night.  
I mentally brace myself as I enter the house. I can't help but compare it to the houses I'd just passed in the Seam. The difference was startling and I'd never took the time to notice it before.  
I have two feet inside the door when she rounds the corner.  
"You little brat! I have never been more humiliated!"  
"Lianne." My father says. But that's all he ever says.  
"No!" She screams at him before turning back to me. "You think that because you're a Victor now that you're worth more than us?"  
"No, mother." I reply calmly. "I know that I was entitled some peace nod quiet after the hell I'd just survived."  
I move past her to the stairs that led to my room on the second floor. She reaches out and grabs my arm, her nails trying their hardest to rip into my skin and bend me to her bidding.  
"Mother," I growl. "Let go."  
I hear Rye get up from his chair in the living room, he must have heard my tone. "Mom, let go of him."  
"You sit down!" She shrieks. "Where were you Peeta?"  
"That's none of your business, Mother." Her nails dig further into my skin.  
"No! You were with that Seam Rat, weren't you."  
I turn and rip my arm out of her grip. "Do not speak of her that way. That story is the only reason I got home." I could feel my calm slipping.  
"That story made me a laughing stock. My youngest son, pinning for years after scum-ridden Seam filth, whose only possible attribution to the district is as one of Cray's girls."  
She lifts her hand to slap me but I catch her arm. "If you ever raise your hand against me or my family in violence again, you will regret it for the rest of your life. And if you ever," I step closer to her. "Say anything like that again, to anyone, you will find out exactly who your youngest son came home as. I am a Victor." I sneer and she has enough sense to cower. "And I will have your respect."  
I throw her arm away and stalk to the door. I'm suddenly so thankful for Haymitch having the foresight to pick up my keys. I make the long trek to the Victors Village in the darkness. The only light was from that of the new moon. In the distance I could hear the few who still remained in the square. The night air was warm but dry.  
I opened the door to my house and was faced with incomplete designs and half unwrapped furniture. I guess this would do. Moving around the unknown house in the dark proves more difficult then I imagine. But finally I find a room with a bed. The mattress is still covered in the plastic and I don't have anything to change into but I find sleep surprisingly easy. I bet I got at least three hours.  
The next morning I know I need to go talk to my parents. If not my mom at least my Dad. I turn the corner to the street my parents house is on. I'm focused on the ground. Why am I even coming here? I hear yelling and I look up to see Mother standing on the porch with someone. I quicken my steps and soon realize it's Gale. From Gale's posture I can tell he's about to snap.  
"Hawthorn," I call.  
He spins on his heel. "Mellark." I stop about fifteen feet away from the porch. "Rory said you came by last night."  
My mother gasps and I tune her out before I even hear a word she will say. I focus on Hawthorn and jerk my head back, indicating for him to follow. I start walking away, knowing Gale won't be too far behind me. I walk thru town, past the Seam and then reach the meadow. I stop then, not willing to enter his domain of the woods without any witnesses.  
"She always like that?" It takes me a moment to figure out what he's referring to.  
I shrug. "You get used to tuning it out. It's the rolling pins you have to watch out for."  
His lips curl up slightly. "You have my attention."


	3. Visiting the Victor

Katniss:  
~Last Year~  
A twig snapping behind me lurches me into action. On instinct I spin, fall to my right knee and take aim.  
"Easy Catnip." Gale chides with a laugh, not at all worried that I was about to shoot him. I lower my bow.  
"You're late," I snap as I dust off my knees. The early autumn leaves are beginning to cover the forest floor. Hunting live game will be difficult for the next couple months until the rain comes. The dry crunch is almost worse than the winter months.  
Gale shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. I try to ignore it as I start releasing a dead hare from the line. "Where were you?" I demand. The last time he was late, Posy had some sort of spots all over her body that she and half her class had contracted. Mom had said it was some sort of Pox, but I can't remember the actually name. I over heard her and Hazelle saying they were grateful it wasn't the worse one. But even then he had let me know, not just shown up an hour and a half later.  
Gale shrugs and walks to the nearest snare. "I needed to talk to someone."  
I don't know what it was, but I had no patience to deal with this shit now. Before I know it, venom is shooting out of my mouth. "Taking someone to the slag heap now takes precedence over feeding your family." I sneer.  
"I wasn't at the Slag Heap." He clips.  
"You were just talking to someone."  
"I was." He snaps.  
I let out an exasperated sigh and walk ahead of him to the next line, leaving the three rabbits for him to carry. We work the rest of the snares in silence, not that that's anything new, but this silence is different. It's deafening.  
We reach the fence and I can tell he wants to say something but he's waiting for me to start the conversation. I roll my eyes at him. He can wait all he wants.  
In the end, we split the game seven-five. Five for me to trade at the Hob. Seven for Gale to trade to Cray and the Peacekeepers. For the last couple years Gale hasn't let me within a half mile of Cray's Head Peacekeeper House. It's no secret Cray's love of cradle robbing. Another thing Peeta's bread saved me from. If we had somehow managed to get by, a couple more years and I would have ended up on his doorstep like so many others.  
I step into the musky shed that's the Hob. It's recently become my reprieve from all the buzz about me and Peeta. Other than a few snide comments, that Gale quickly put to a stop, it's the on place that hasn't began to treat me differently. They don't care who might 'love' me. I've been coming here long enough to make a name for myself, and I always deliver.  
I head to my first stop: Greasy Sae. We barter for a few minutes before finally coming to price we both agree on. She takes three. The other two I traded for some elixir my mom was talking about for one of here patients.  
"Well what do we have here?" A man emerges from the shadows of the trees lining the meadow.  
I turn on my heel and start walking back to the Hob. Its too far. I feel a hand grab my wrist and it wrenches me around. I come face to face with the new Peacekeeper, Wayle Waters. "What do you want, Waters?"  
"Little girls like you shouldn't be going into that shack alone. Someone might try to take advantage of you."  
He starts pulling me towards the trees. "Stop!" I cry. "Let me go!"  
He does, causing me to fall to the ground. He laughs menacingly. "What? Are you going to cry to your victor?"  
My blood goes cold. He knows exactly who I am. "Yeah, and he'll kill you for this." I try to say it strong but it comes out portraying just how scared I am.  
A sick smile forms on his face but before he can respond a voice interrupts him. "He won't get the chance. I might just kill you first." I look over my shoulder to see Darius standing there with a very threatening look on his face. "You better hope like hell she doesn't go to Cray with this, because I'll testify on her side."  
"It's not like Cray doesn't do the same thing." Waters sneers.  
"No matter how much I don't agree with that practice, they come to him. I doubt Katniss here willingly came to you, in the middle of the day, on her way home. Did you Katniss?" I shake my head frantically. "I didn't think so. Now get the hell out of here Waters, this isn't even your zone."  
Darius reaches down and helps me stand. I mumble a thanks that sounds like it was for the hand up, but we both know it's not.  
"That bastard will know exactly how serious I am tonight. I might even let Hawthorne get a few blows in there."  
"Don't tell him." He raises and eyebrow at me. "He'll never let me out alone again. It's just one asshole, that won't be trying it again."  
He nods once. "Get out of here before I change my mind."  
"Thanks." I say as I turn around and walk quickly home. Hoping the bottle in my front pocket hadn't broken in the fall.  
"Katniss?" I stop. "So. . .your victor was going to kick his ass?" He teases.  
"Shut up, Darius." I snap. My departure is set to the soundtrack of his stupid laughter.  
. . .  
"Prim, slow down." She looks back at me, rolls her eyes, and then continues at the same pace, if not faster. Every Sunday I take Prim into town. We never buy anything, unless my mother specifically needs it for a patient, but she seems to enjoy the pointlessness of window shopping.  
"Hurry up, Katniss. With everyone still celebrating this week, the cakes will be gone sooner than usual."  
I know she's right, it has been six days since the train has arrived. And with all the Capital people who have come to do whatever the hell it is they are doing, it's putting a little extra jingle in everyone's pocket. Not that I'm selling to the Capital workers, but there have been a few times where my kills were bet on. It had given me enough to buy Prim a new set of ribbons for her hair instead of the twine and still have a few coins left over.  
We finally arrive at the bakery window. I catch myself before I automatically look thru the window for the boy with the bread. During the games, when I had traded with the baker or came with Prim, Peeta's absence seemed to scream at me, more than his looming presence ever did. I look down the alley and see the tree I had almost died under. I can almost feel the pains in my stomach from the memory.  
I'm so completely in my own head that it isn't until I hear Prim gasp that I even realize something's wrong. "Katniss," Prim exclaims. "Where are the cakes?"  
I look at the usually full display to see some bread and a few cookies. Don't get me wrong, it's still more plentiful than weekdays, but the delicately decorated cakes are still missing from the display.  
"I thought that since he was home now, he'd do the cakes again." There's something I've learned about Prim over the years, she doesn't pout. She never whines or throws tantrums like I still see some eleven year olds do, she just does her best to hide her disappointment behind a smile. But that's even more heart moving to me than any fit she could think to throw.  
I reach into my pocket and pull out the extra coins. I was going to save them to get my shoes patched. My big toe has a habit of making holes in the top of my right shoe, but I can't stand the thought of Prim going home anything but happy, especially when I can do something to solve it.  
"Prim, go inside a buy a couple cookies from the baker. We can eat them later tonight."  
"Really?" Her face lights up with a happiness that only someone like Prim could achieve. I nod and she skips inside the store. I start to move away from the window, not wanting the witch to see me. Prim looks 'town' enough that she won't draw the baker's wife's attention, but if she sees me, she would make Prim leave empty handed. That's when I notice I have drawn the attention of a Mellark. Rye Mellark is staring right at me, an unreadable look on his face.  
Without changing his expression he moves towards the front door. I take a few steps back as he comes to stand in front of me. "Katniss."  
"We came to see the cakes but there's not any so Prim's buying a cookie for dessert tonight and we come every Sunday but—" I cut my rambling off.  
"Peeta didn't come in today."  
I nod like I understand. Not knowing what to say, we stand there in silence. Finally Prim comes out of the shop, carrying more than a couple cookies.  
"Go see him." He says suddenly.  
"What?"  
"Go see him. My mom won't let me out of her sight unless I'm working so I can't go see him myself. He's isolating himself in that house and the only person he sees is that drunken excuse for a mentor. Please, he's still a kid."  
Rye's eighteen, had just turned it. But from what I've seen, Rye's still as immature as a five year old. I had come to believe the only difference was that Rye knew what sex was, but, like a child, acted like knowing this was the best thing in the world and he centered his entire existence around it. Girls talk about him almost as much as they talk about Gale. And even then that's only because Gale's Seam and forbidden, which somehow makes him that much more everything for the Townies.  
"I-I can't." I grab Prim's arm and drag her away quickly. When we get out of town I let go of her.  
"So," Prim starts. "When are you going to see Peeta?"  
My step falters. "I'm not."  
"Why not?" She fiddles with the bow in her hair.  
"Because I don't know him."  
"So you're not going to see him?"  
"No, because it wouldn't help anything."  
She stops. "Mom says that people always heal faster when they're able to see the ones they love." She has always had a penchant for repeating things Mother says.  
"Well, he doesn't love me." I snap before reminding myself who I'm talking to.  
"So, he was lying?" Her little nose scrunches up.  
"Well, no." I bend down to her level. "He's just a little confused. He thinks he is."  
She seems to think about this for a moment, before shrugging. "I still think it would help." Then she continues her light walk, leaving me behind to dwell on the knowledge of an eleven year old.  
That night the Hawthorns come over for dinner. Gale and I had shot a turkey and instead of trading it, we decided to get everyone together. It isn't uncommon, especially during the winter months, but it is always nice. That is, until my mother asks Posy if anything interesting had happened that weekend.  
"Peeta see Gale!" Her small face lights up with excitement. I freeze; I know the only thing Peeta and Gale could ever have to talk about is me.  
"He came by the other night while I was out. Rory told me when I got home. So I thought I'd see what he had to say before checking the traps that morning. It went longer than I thought it would." Gale, seeing the shock on my face, rushes to explain.  
"That's why you were late?" I ask slowly, trying to comprehend it.  
"Can you excuse us, Mrs Everdeen? I'd like to speak with Katniss."  
"Of course," my mother agrees. It's really only a curtesy anymore, we both know I don't need to report my actions to her. Gale smiles at her in thanks.  
"What'd he say?" I demand once we're outside.  
"He apologized for everything. He didn't even think about the effects it could have until well into the games and by that point he couldn't do anything to stop it. He was worried about it bringing to much attention to you and then someone would find out about our hunting."  
"How are you so calm?" I ask incredulously, remembering all the times he had stormed out of the house during the games.  
"The Bread Boy made some sense. The games are a Capital Television show. They ate this drama up." He runs his hand thru his hair. "And I didn't even think about the consequences of the added attention, so I can't blame him for not realizing it either."  
"But still—"  
"Katniss," His voice cuts the air like a knife. "You can't really be that dense."  
I glare at him.  
"He did what he had to do." He looks me straight in the eye. "To survive."  
That word chills my anger to the bone. If anyone knows what it's like to do anything and everything you can to survive it's me and Gale. For him to be comparing Peeta to our hunting, then it must have been one hell of a talk. "So he made it all up?" I question.  
"I don't know. He never denied anything." Gale picks up a rock and throws it as hard as he can down the street.  
Peeta couldn't love me. We've never said a word to each other. But Peeta's stories during the games rang of truth. The parts about my father and the birds. And I did sing that first day of school, although I don't remember the song. And that red plaid dress . . . there was one of those, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father's death.  
It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on the awful hollow day. So, if these details are true . . . could it all be true?  
"What do you think?" I whisper, afraid of the answer.  
"I don't know, Catnip. I don't know."  
"Rye asked me to go see him."  
He's quiet for a long moment before looking over at me. "I just don't want to lose you."  
"You're not going to." I say quickly. But for some reason, he looks doubtful.  
Peeta:  
~Present~  
"Boy," Haymitch calls. He's standing over in a group of four or five. I identify Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason and can recognize the others as past victors. "I want you to meet a few people."  
I walk over, not at all interested in who he's talking to. "When will she be done?" Purposefully placing my back to the others. Katniss had been taken to see her stylist. I hadn't met them yet, Effie said they were new this year.  
I wish I could have talked to them before hand. My biggest fear was that she would come out dressed like Legacy, my district partner from last year. I had been presented bare chested, in tight black pants, a head lamp on my forehead, and covered in coal dust. She had been dressed in less than what could be considered undergarments. The scraps of fabric: sheer. And while my stylist had used the dust to create an allusion of larger muscles across my chest and arms, her's had used it to emphasize what little curves her hunger-pained body had managed to retained. By the end of the Tribute Parade her face was streaked with tears of humiliation. I shake away the memory, focusing back onto the situation.  
"Who?" A female voice asks rudely.  
I ignore her and keep my focus on Haymitch. He puts his hand on my shoulder, attempting to turn me. "Soon. Now let me introduce you—"  
I knock his hand off, causing him to stumble in his intoxicated state. "I thought you said you weren't going to drink during her games."  
He straightens himself up and mockingly takes another drink. "Her games haven't started yet."  
My hands curl into fists. "Haymitch." I snap.  
The humor drains from his face, replaced with the rare serious side of my mentor. "Peeta, I will do everything in my power to get her thru this. I know what she means to you."  
"Katniss?" Finnick asks from behind me. I turn to look at him as he continues. "That girl you said you talked about last year? She got picked, right?"  
"Picked?" Johanna scoffs. "Yeah I'm sure she was picked."  
"The girl volunteered." The last person in the group speaks up. "I watched the tapes last night. Her twelve year old sister was picked."  
"She volunteered for this hell? After she watched, first hand, what it does to even the victor?" A look of incredulity passes over Johanna's face before she mutters something that sounded like 'brainless.'  
"She would never had let anything happen to Prim. Her family is everything to her." I defend.  
The conversation lulls; the victors seeming to communicate by glances and hidden nods. By the time I hear Effie's heels, it was almost as if they had come to a decision.  
"Peeta? Haymitch? They're coming, they're coming." Effie flairs her hands as if shooing a bird. Haymitch merely rolls his eyes but mine are immediately drawn in the direction Effie's shuffling to. As she nears the elevators, the farthest one to the left opens and Katniss steps out.  
I let out a sigh of relief when I see her. She's dressed head to toe in a black suit that gives the appearance of armor. Her hair is done up with multiple braids and her makeup made to look exotic and dangerous. She reminds me of a painting of Hera, the Greek goddess of war. She looks fierce. She looks beautiful.  
Without excusing myself from the group, I stride over to her. "Katniss?"  
She looks up with her usual scowl on her face. Now that I'm closer I can see the almost transparent cape of reds, yellows and oranges. The coloring and arrangement giving off an aura of fire.  
"A little different than a coal miners uniform."  
Her scowl turns into a full glare. "He's lighting me on fire, Peeta." She snaps. "Aren't you and Haymitch supposed to protect us from this sort of thing."  
I raise an eyebrow at her. "I doubt your stylists are trying to kill you, Katniss. And Haymitch has his head down the neck of his whiskey bottle, with all the alcohol in him, it's probably a good thing he won't be around the open flame."  
Her scowl breaks for just a moment, leaving almost a small smile tugging at her painted-red lips. It falls when we're joined by the stylists and Tommy. He's dressed in a similar outfit, but it has no where near the same effect as Katniss'.  
"Let's get you guys up on the chariots." The male stylist says.  
I give Katniss a hand up, which she grips with more need than necessary.  
"What do I do?" She asks in a whisper.  
"Make yourself as uncomfortable as possible." Her head whips to the side to look at me. "Smile. Wave. Make the audience remember you. You have an advantage, the Capital has seen you before. You made an impression at the Reaping. Use that to your advantage. Don't capture the audience's attention, demand it."  
Suddenly her cape erupts in flames and I'm forced to let go of her hand. The chariot lunches forward and exits out the large gate into the city. Katniss: the girl on fire.


	4. Girl on Fire

Peeta:  
~Last Year~  
A knock at my door finally pulls me out of my reverie. I look back at the nightmare in front of me. The man, Teller, was the last person I had fought in the arena. His body was bent over the tree limbs of the swamp, held out of the water by the low branches. His eyes remained open but my bloody handprint was left on his neck and jaw. The blood red paint was used only twice in the entire painting. The other on his abdomen, the final blow delivered by the sharpened stick I had held against him.  
The knock comes again and I force myself to make my way upstairs. It's probably Haymitch. He has been the only person to visit me since I moved into the Victors Village. Which, I guess I'm fine with. The silence in stark contrast to my weeks in the Capital.  
I open the door and almost forget to breathe: Katniss Everdeen stands on the other side shifting from foot to foot. When she hears the door open, her posture changes. Her knees bend slightly, her shoulders square, and her eyes sharpen. She's wound up like a feral cat, and absolutely just as beautiful as I remember.  
We stand there for a long moment. "Katniss," I acknowledge, finally.  
"You weren't at the Bakery the other day," she snaps.  
I feel my eyebrows raise. When did she go to the bakery? "I only go in a few days a week." That's a lie. I don't even bother attempting to keep a solid schedule. I show up whenever I feel like doing something more productive than painting my nightmares or making sure Haymitch washes the puke off his clothes from the night before. I don't even know what day it is.  
She nods once, returning her gaze to the ground. I look back over my shoulder at the dark living room. "Do you want to come in?" I have no idea what I'm going to say to her, but I don't want her to leave.  
She pulls her braid over her shoulder and fiddles with it, then nods again. I open the door wider. While she slowly walks in, I search the wall for a light switch. I find one and a chandelier and two lamps turn on. A small blush burns my cheeks when I notice the furniture is still covered with white sheets.  
I walk over to the couch and pull off the white cloth. "Sorry, the entire house is like this." She shuts the door and makes her way over to the uncovered sofa. I remove another sheet from a chair across from the couch before sitting in it. I lean forward, my hands nervously rubbing up and down my thighs. "I've only used a few of the rooms. The basement and a couple upstairs. I haven't even used the kitchen yet." I mumble the last part.  
She just kinda shrugs, looking blankly at the wall behind me.  
"So, you, uh, went to the bakery?" She nods once. "Was it just to trade or. . ." I fade off but when I don't get a response, I continue, "My father says you have the best shot he's ever seen. Hit 'em right between the eyes. Every time. Those squirrels have a better taste than half the stuff the butcher sells. Its safer too. Never know what you're gonna get in that ground beef packaging. But that's all we could ever afford, or it, uh, used to be. Now, I mean, I could probably, um."  
Her eyes slide over to look at me, cutting off my rambling. She knows what I mean but I can't seem to shut my mouth. I'm usually better with words than this. There's a pregnant pause in our one sided conversation and she takes that as her cue to go. Katniss stands in a way that reminds me of a rubber band snapping back into position.  
I stand as well but her mind is else where. We finally make eye contact but then she's out the door, letting it slam behind her.  
"Nice talking to you." I say under my breath, convinced she wouldn't be back again.  
Katniss:  
~Present~  
"Smile. Wave. Make the audience remember you. You have an advantage, the Capital has seen you before. You made an impression at the Reaping. Use that. Don't capture the audience's attention, demand it."  
Cinna's behind me, I can hear him talking but I'm focused on Peeta and the rough hand my own is clutched around. Suddenly, the cape erupts with a quiet whoosh. I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Canna speaks again but the chariot lurches forward. I let go of the hand keeping me steady as we start to ride into the night.  
The crowds initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of 'District Twelve!' Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us. At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and an floored by how breath taking we look. In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces and we seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes.  
Although, Tommy really gets the poor end of the stick as the flames from my shoulders raise higher and longer because of my height. I almost feel a twinge of guilt because I have been placed a half step closer to top of the chariot, having him almost fade into the background. This is amplified when the crowd starts to shout my name. After Peeta's games, I doubted they'd even had to look up my name in the program.  
Peeta's words fill my head almost as if he sent them. I'm getting you home, Katniss. I snap out of my thoughts and begin to heed the words of advice he had just spoken to me. I lift my head up a little higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with alacrity. This change seems to happen just in time for me to catch a red rose from the audience. In response, I throw a kiss in the direction of the giver. A hundred hands reach up to catch my kiss, as if it were a real and tangible thing.  
Cinna has given me a great advantage. He has delivered on the anticipation of my first Capital appearance. No one will question the direction of Peeta's affections after tonight. No one will be able to ignore me now. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire.  
We are brought to a halt in the City Circle. Tommy stumbles and I have to stop myself from reaching out to help him. My helping him could be interpreted as in a way of linking us together, somehow forming a silent alliance. It wouldn't be fair to present us as a team, then lock us in an arena to kill each other.  
The president, a small, thin man with paper-white hair, gives us the official welcome from the balcony in front us. His mansion looming above all the buildings in the Capital. The Crown Jewel of their society. The national anthem plays loudly across the Circle while the cameras do a quick cut to all the tributes, lingering on District Twelve. The chariots make one final loop around the Circle returning to the Training Center.  
The doors shut behind us and the chariots are surrounded by the prep teams, the stylists and our mentors. Cinna and Portia carefully turn off the flames and remove our capes and extravagant head dresses. My eyes meet the cool ice blue of Peeta's and I let out an imperceivable sigh of relief, the color so calming after being engulfed in the flames of Cinna's creation.  
"Katniss," he offers me a hand down. I step down incredibly close to his chest.  
I'm just about to respond when I glance over his shoulder. Tributes from multiple districts glare at me. I suppress a shudder when I notice that the male tribute from Two has a different look on his face. Peeta feels my trepidation and follows my gaze.  
"Come on," he says quietly. "Let's go up to the rooms." Instead of moving, I clutch his arms to keep him still.  
Once, I was stalking a stag I had wounded thru the forest back home. As I came up on the carcass, a mountain lion had taken interest as well. I remember the look in his eye as I notched my arrow. It wasn't the one of fear or confusion I would sometimes see in the animals I had previously killed. The cat wasn't looking at me like a predator or even a prey. It was the look of a challenge.  
Two has the same look in his eye now. Smirking defiantly, I let him know his challenge has been accepted. I stand up on my tip toes to reach Peeta's check. Lightly kissing his left cheekbone, a habitual thank you that passes between us rarely but more times than I like to admit. I keep my lips pressed against that spot for longer than usual, remembering the bruise that had obscured his cheek when we were eleven.  
I don't know whether the furious look on Two's face or the small smile on Peeta's gives me more pleasure. But as we walk towards the elevator, I'm immensely satisfied.  
. . .  
Later that night, we're sitting around the shiny black table with more food in front of us than needed to feed the entire Seam for a week. My head, feeling slightly foggy from my glass of wine, is grateful when a beautiful cake is placed in front of me, dragging my attention from the delicious drink. To my complete shock, the cake is promptly lit on fire and burns for a few moments before putting itself out.  
"What makes it burn it that?" I say, looking up at the girl who put the cake on the table. "That's he last thing I was—oh!" I blink my eyes, trying to get a better picture. "I know you!" I exclaim, confused.  
I can't place a name or a time to the girls face, but I'm certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features and porcelain skin: not things very common in District Twelve. But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and I know some bad memory is associated with her. The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my unease and confusion. She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.  
When I look back, everyone is watching me like hawks.  
"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Effie. "The very thought."  
"What's an Avox?" I ask stupidly.  
"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue out so she can't speak," Haymitch says. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."  
"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Effie. "Of course, you don't really know her."  
But I do know her. And now that Haymitch has mentioned the word traitor I remember from where. The disapproval is so high I could never admit it. "No, I guess not, I just—" I stammer, and the wine is not helping.  
Peeta snaps his fingers, bringing the attention to him and off my floundering. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."  
Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly. She may also be the friendliest person on the planet—she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me. I've even met her a few times with Peeta. But I jump on Peeta's suggestion gratefully. Knowing full well that if he's lying here, I need to get on board now. "Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," I say.  
"Something about the eyes, too," says Peeta.  
The energy at the table relaxes. "Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut."  
Cinna gets up to cut the cake and Peeta sends me a look that says we will be continuing the conversation later. The resolve in his posture gives me no choice but to nod slightly.  
We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies that's being broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an "Ahh!" as they show us coming out into the parade.  
The broadcast ends with Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Temple dotting on the news of The Star Crossed Lovers—that's what they have taken to calling us. The couple fated to a destiny of watching helplessly as the other fought to the death with twenty three other tributes. The couple that, if they survived, would write a history of romance in the greatest epic of our time.  
After it's over, Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him. I know what's coming. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here."  
He's asking for an explanation, and I know I have to give him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt once again. That's my real destiny: a life of owing Peeta Mellark.  
I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone who might be able to help me figure out her story. Besides, the idea of the girl with her maimed tongue frightens me. She has reminded me why I'm here. Not to model flashy costumes and eat delicacies. But to die a bloody death while the crowds urge on my killer.  
To tell or not to tell? My brain still feels slow from the wine. I stare down the empty corridor as if the decision lies there. I don't know why I'm stalling, I already know he'll end up dragging it out of me somehow. Peeta picks up on my hesitation but interprets it differently than intended. "Have you been on the roof yet?" I shake my head. "Haymitch showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though."  
I translate this into "No one will overhear us talking" in my head. I do have the sense that we might be under surveillance here and Peeta would know better than me. "Can we just go up?"  
"Sure, come on," says Peeta. I follow him to a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. There's a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a vast field of fireflies. Electricity in District Twelve comes at a steep price. Often the evenings are spent in candlelight. The only time you can count on it is when they're airing the Games or some important government message on television that it's mandatory to watch. But here there would be no shortage. Ever.  
Peeta and I walk to a railing at the edge of the roof. I look straight down the side of the building to the street, which is buzzing with people. You can hear their cars, an occasional shout, and a strange metallic tinkling. In District Twelve, we'd all be thinking about bed right now.  
"Last year I asked Haymitch why they would let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?"says Peeta.  
"What'd he say?" I ask.  
"You can't," he says with a cheeky grin. He holds out his hand into seemingly empty space. There's a sharp zap and he jerks it back. "Some kind of electric field will throw you back on the roof."  
"Always worried about our safety," I quip. Even though Haymitch has shown Peeta the roof, I wonder if we're supposed to be up here now, so late and alone. I've never seen tributes on the Training Center roof before. But that doesn't mean we're not being taped. "Do you think they're watching us now?"  
"Maybe," he admits. "Come see the garden."  
On the other side of the dome, they've built a garden with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hang hundreds of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard. Here in the garden, on this windy night, it's enough to drown out two people who are trying not to be heard. Peeta looks at me expectantly. I pretend to examine a blossom. "We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game," I whisper.  
"You and your father?" he whispers back.  
"No, me and Gale. Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her. I'm sure it was the same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it," I recount. For a moment I'm silent, as I remember how the sight of this strange pair, clearly not from District Twelve, fleeing through the woods immobilized us. Later, we wondered if we could have helped them escape. Perhaps we might have. Concealed them. If we'd moved quickly. Gale and I were taken by surprise, yes, but we're both hunters. We know how animals look at bay. We knew the pair was in trouble as soon as we saw them. But we only watched. The memory of our failure to help makes my stomach turn.  
"The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere," I continue to Peeta. "I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn't make a sound, but they saw it. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened."  
"Did they see you?" Peeta asked.  
"I don't know. We were under a shelf of rock," I reply. But I do know. There was a moment, after the birdcall, but before the hovercraft, where the girl had seen us. She'd locked eyes with me and called out for help. But neither Gale or I had responded.  
"You're shivering," says Peeta.  
The wind and the story have blown all the warmth from my body. The girl's scream. Had it been her last?  
Peeta steps closer to me and opens the labels of his jacket. He wraps the coat around my back and I decide for the moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. I hesitantly lean into his warm chest letting his arms ward off the coolness of the air and the fear of the memory.  
"They were from here?" he asks.  
I nod, knowing he can feel the motion under his chin. They'd had that Capitol look about them. The boy and the girl.  
"Where do you suppose they were going?" he asks.  
"I don't know that," I say. District Twelve is pretty much the end of the line. Beyond us, there's only wilderness. If you don't count the ruins of District Thirteen that still smolder from the toxic bombs. They show it on television occasionally, just to remind us. "Or why they would leave here." Haymitch had called the Avoxes traitors. Against what? It could only be the Capitol. But they had everything here. No cause to rebel.  
"I'd leave here," Peeta blurts out. Then he looks around nervously. It was loud enough to hear above the chimes. He laughs. "I'd go home now if they let me. Take you away. Keep you safe. But you have to admit, the food's prime."  
He's covering again. If that's all you'd heard it would just sound like a man who wanted to keep his lover safe and away from the brutality of the games, not someone contemplating the unquestionable goodness of the Capitol. "It's getting chilly. We better go in," he says. Inside the dome, it's warm and bright. His tone is conversational. "Did Gale come to say goodbye to you?"  
"Yes," I say. "So did your father. He brought me cookies."  
Peeta smiles slightly, just a half curl of his lips. "He likes you."  
"Well what's not to like?" I deadpan.  
Peeta laughs wholeheartedly. "Absolutely nothing."  
It's good to hear his full laugh. It brings me away from this place, away from the reality of what's waiting for me in a handful of days.  
Peeta leads me back to my room before saying good night. When I open my door, the redheaded girl is collecting my costume and boots from where I left them on the floor before my shower after the parade. I want to apologize for possibly getting her in trouble earlier. But I remember I'm not supposed to speak to her unless I'm giving her an order.  
"Oh, sorry," I say. "I was supposed to get those back to Cinna. I'm sorry. Can you take them to him?"  
She avoids my eyes, gives a small nod, and heads out the door.  
I'd set out to tell her I was sorry about dinner. But I know that my apology runs much deeper. That I'm ashamed I never tried to help her in the woods. That I let the Capitol kill the boy and mutilate her without lifting a finger. Just like I was watching the Games. I kick off my shoes and climb under the covers in my clothes. The shivering returns without Peeta there to distract my thoughts. Perhaps the girl doesn't even remember me. But I know she does. You don't forget the face of the person who was your last hope. I pull the covers up over my head as if this will protect me from the redheaded girl who can't speak. But I can feel her eyes staring at me, piercing through walls and doors and bedding.  
I wonder if she'll enjoy if I die.  
. . .  
The three days of training pass rather quickly. I visit the survival stations the most, learning the basic skills and staying away from the archery station, although my hands itch to feel the weight of their long time friend. I avoid Tommy as much as possible but his childish cries when something goes wrong or his annoying whine about soreness are hard not to ignore.  
The other tributes keep a solid distance from me, greeting me with hostile stares and whispers. Their mentors probably warned them off an alliance with me. I know the first thing half off these tributes are going to want to do is hunt me down and kill me. The longer I'm in the games hopefully the more sponsors Peeta and Haymitch will be able to rally behind me, so the Careers will most likely try to kill me first. No mentor wanted a vendetta on the heads of their tribute's allies.  
On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. District by district, first the boy, then the girl tribute. As usual, District Twelve is slated to go last. I linger in the dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens. By the time they call Rue, the girl from Eleven, Tommy and I are left alone. We sit in silence until they summon him.  
He scoots back his chair loudly. As he stands to walk towards the door, his foot gets caught and he falls to his knees. He then proceeds to throw the rest of his body onto the ground in a fit. He lets out a scream once before hitting the ground with his fist a few times.  
"Tommy," I snap, fed up with his tantrum. "Get up and go. They called your name."  
"Why?" He cries, looking back at me with red eyes from tears.  
"Thomas Fieldsworth." The intercom repeated. "District Twelve."  
I look away from him. I agree, doing this makes me feel like I'm going to be inspected before auctioned off to the best slaughter house, but I wasn't even going to consider defying the traditions of the games while in the heart of the Capital. After what seemed like forever, I heard his heavy tread stomp out of the room.  
I sit bouncing my knees as I wait for my name. "Shoot straight." Peeta had said this morning, knowing what I was going to show the Gamemakers during my time. I let myself find a moment of peace in replaying his voice in my head.  
"Katniss Everdeen. District Twelve."  
I smooth my hair back and walk into the training room. Instantly, I know I'm in trouble. They've been here too long, the Gamemakers have at through twenty-three other demonstrations, most have had too much to wine, and all want more than anything to go home. There's nothing I can do but continue with the plan.  
I walk to the archery station. Oh, the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days! Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name. Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines. I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There's a shooting range, but it's much too limited. Standard bull's-eyes and human silhouettes.  
I walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first target. The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something is wrong. The string's tighter than the one I use at home. The arrow's more rigid. I miss the dummy by a couple of inches and lose what little attention I had been commanding. For a moment, I'm humiliated, then I head back to the bull's-eye. I shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.  
Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position and skewer the dummy right through the heart. Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I shoulder roll forward, come up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks bursts from the fixture. It's excellent shooting.  
I turn to the Gamemakers. A few are nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table. Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don't even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I'm being upstaged by a dead pig. My heart starts to pound, I can feel my face burning. Without thinking, I pul an arrow from my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers' table. I hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back. The arrow skewers the apple in the pig's mouth and pins it to the wall behind it. Everyone stares at me in disbelief.  
"Thank you for your consideration," I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being dismissed.  
Peeta:  
We're sitting on the couches, talking with Tommy about his time with the Gamemakers. I don't know how to sit here and listen to a child who I am banking on being dead in a few weeks. So I just stare out the window. Haymitch said that it would get easier over the years, especially when Katniss gets thru this. He said I'll learn not to associate with people under eighteen so it won't always be like this—choosing which one to save, which one to abandon. In all honesty, it wasn't much of a choice. As bad as I feel for the Fieldsworths, Katniss is my main priority. She always has been.  
The doors to the elevator open and Katniss bursts onto the floor. She takes one look at the room before bursting into tears and running down the hall. Haymitch looks at me as we hear the slam of a door. In a second, half the room is following her.  
"Katniss?" Effie calls, rattling the locked door handle. "Katniss what happened?"  
I can practically see Kantiss rolling her eyes at the sound of her high pitch voice, made even more ridiculous with the added accent. Effie is so close to the door her nose is practically smashed up against it. Haymitch grabs her arm and pulls her away.  
"Haymitch!" She protests, hardly keeping up in her heels.  
"Let the boy talk to her," I hear him whisper. He turns and throws me a key before dragging her back down the hall. The rest of the company leave with them.  
I slip the key into the hole and quietly open the door. Katniss' cries, muffled by the pillow she's hiding her face in, cover the sound of my entry. Her body flinches as the bed sinks under my weight. I wait until she removes the pillow from her face before talking.  
"How bad was it?"  
"I shot my arrow at the Gamemakers." If I wasn't talking to Katniss, I would have believed they were kidding.  
I take a deep breath. She obviously didn't kill one of them, they wouldn't have let her come back if she had. "What happened?"  
"I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just... I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" she almost yells.  
I shift my legs under me so I'm fulling on the bed. "Last year, by the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."  
She nods. The Gamemakers are always wound up by the time they reach the last few tributes.  
"What happened after that?" I ask.  
"Nothing, I just walked out."  
"Without being dismissed?" I pause my inquiry, realizing I sounded like a certain pest with a pink wig.  
"Do you think they'll kill me?" There was no hint of weakness in her voice, only acceptance.  
"No, it would be a pain to have to replace you at this point." My thinly veiled sarcasm is rewarded with a glare. I cleared my throat. "Katniss, the worst they'll do at this point is give you a poor score which will limit sponsors. But I think I can compel a few with more talls of the Star Crossed Lovers." I try to joke but it sends a jolt of pain to my heart and I know it shows in my voice. Although Katniss has warmed up significantly since our first meetings, the depth of our 'feelings' are still as one sided as they have been my entire life. Haymitch has been giving her pointers to a strategy for the Interview tomorrow, which means he's been teaching her how to pretend to be in love with me.  
Everything I think about it, I feel that tightening in my chest. But I know this is the best way to get her home. My love for her got me through the 73rd games, but Haymitch and I both know it won't be enough to get her thru the 74th. The feelings need to be mutual. The audiences need to see love. I just hope I can handle it as well.  
That night when Ceaser Flickerman announces the scores, Katniss recieves an eleven. Maybe the audiences aren't the only ones rooting for the Girl on Fire. Now we just have to get thru the interviews with the facade still intact. I pray to whatever God resides above our messed up world: please don't let Katniss screw it up.


	5. The Interview

Katniss:  
~Present~  
We don't have practice the next morning. Haymitch spends hours trying to coach my acting, but it still isn't even close to convincible. My angle or strategy for the interview is a love struck girl who will do everything in her power to get back to the boy she loves. Peeta's not with us, even though I know they will both move on to Tommy while I'm with Effie.  
Effie spends her few hours of coaching trying to get me to behave like a lady. Which entails a training session on walking in shoes that are taller than I am, an edict lesson, and a barrage of all the ways she can to tell me that she doesn't see how Peeta can stand to be in the same room with me. My manners are deplorable and my personality is lacking certain amiable qualities such a fine young man as Peeta is searching for.  
"But that can all be fixed," she says. "You just need to practice."  
Effie makes me say a hundred banal phrases starting with a smile, while smiling, or ending with a smile. By lunch, the muscles in my cheeks are twitching from overuse.  
"Well, that's the best I can do," Effie sighs. "Just remember, Katniss, you want the audience to like you." The way she says this sparks irritation in me.  
"And you don't think they will?" I ask.  
"Not if you glare at them the entire time. Why don't you save that for the arena? Instead, think of yourself among friends," says Effie.  
"They're betting on how long I'll live!" I burst out. "They're not my friends!"  
"Well, try and pretend!" snaps Effie. Then she composes herself and beams at me. "See, like this. I'm smiling at you even though you're aggravating me."  
"Yes, it feels very convincing," I say. "I'm going to eat."  
I kick off my heels and stomp down to the dining room, hiking my skirt up to my thighs. I eat lunch in my room, thankfully undisturbed.  
The rest of the day belongs to Cinna. He's my last hope. Maybe he can make me look so wonderful, no one will care what comes out of my mouth.  
The team works on me until late afternoon, turning my skin to glowing satin, stenciling patterns on my arms, painting flame designs on my twenty perfect nails. Then Venia goes to work on my hair, weaving strands of red into a pattern that begins at my left ear, wraps around my head, and then falls in one braid down my right shoulder. They erase my face with a layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out. Huge dark eyes, full red lips, lashes that throw off bits of light when I blink. Finally, they cover my entire body in a powder that makes me shimmer in gold dust. Then Cinna enters with what I assume is my dress, but I can't really see it because it's covered.  
"Close your eyes," he orders. I can feel the silken inside as they slip it down over my naked body, then the weight. It must be forty pounds. I clutch Octavia's hand as I blindly step into my shoes, glad to find they are at least two inches lower than the pair Effie had me practice in. There's some adjusting and fidgeting. Then silence.  
"Can I open my eyes?" I ask.  
"Yes," says Cinna. "Open them."  
The creature standing before me in the full-length mirror has come from another world. Where skin shimmers and eyes flash and apparently they make their clothes from jewels. Because my dress, oh, my dress is entirely covered in reflective precious gems, red and yellow and white with bits of blue that accent the tips of the flame design. The slightest movement gives the impression I am engulfed in tongues of fire.  
I smile truly for the first time that day. I look the part. I look like someone Peeta Mellark could have fallen for at the age of five, someone who could have kept his attention through all the bright lights of the Capital and the savageness of the games. I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.  
For a while, we all just stare at me. "Oh, Cinna," I finally whisper. "Thank you."  
"Twirl for me," he says. I hold out my arms and spin in a circle. The prep team screams in admiration.  
Cinna dismisses the team and has me move around in the dress and shoes, which are infinitely more manageable than Effie's. The dress hangs in such a way that I don't have to lift the skirt when I walk, leaving me with one less thing to worry about.  
"So, all ready for the interview then?" asks Cinna. I can see by his expression that he's been talking to Haymitch. That he knows how dreadful I am.  
"I'm awful. Haymitch called me a dead slug. No matter what we tried, I couldn't do it. I just don't know how to—" my voice cracks. "I don't know how to fake this."  
Peeta and I have grown closer over the past year, but he's not brought up the 'L' word and anytime he hints at it, I make sure he knows its not a welcome topic. I know this is probably a hard thing for him to deal with, assuming everything he said in his games were true. The girl he loves, having to be coached into loving him back. But its not the same as a normal situation. Its not that I don't want to love Peeta, I've never wanted to fall in love period. I refuse to bring a child into a word where they will be thrown into a reaping at age twelve. Because the odds are never in our favor, especially as a victor.  
"Then find a way not to." Cinna said. "You could do a whole lot worse than that boy and you know it. Even if you don't feel like you want to marry him tomorrow, you're not impartial. That much is obvious."  
I glare at him. "Are you telling me to fall in love with Peeta in an hour?"  
"No, I'm telling you that you already love him. Maybe not in the same way he loves you, you haven't known him for that long yet and you're being cautious, thats alright. But its probably not as hard to imagine loving Peeta than you think."  
I finally nod, not to the admission of my alleged love for Peeta, but to the concept. It's a plan. Or at least a straw to grasp at. Too soon it's time to go. The interviews take place on a stage constructed in front of the Training Center. Once I leave my room, it will be only minutes until I'm in front of the crowd, the cameras, all of Panem. As Cinna turns the doorknob, I stop his hand. "Cinna..." I'm completely overcome with stage fright.  
"Remember, they already love you," he says gently. "Just be yourself. And when they ask about Peeta, give them what they want to hear."  
We meet up with the rest of the District 12 crowd at the elevator. Portia and her gang have been hard at work. They've taken Tommy's pasty pink face and made it look innocent, childlike. The look's backed up by a black silk dress shirt and black slacks, no tie. I realize he looks like an average Capital boy. His approach is obviously to gather sympathy from the older citizens whose heart will become invested as they watch the boy who reminds them of their grandson.  
I'm confused that Cinna and Portia didn't dress him in flames. That is, until Peeta boards the elevator. He is dressed in a black suit fitted to his body in a way that makes me want to look twice. Flames starting at the edges of his sleeves and his pant legs lick out towards his torso in intricate patterns. His tie's made out of the same fabric as my dress, definitely on purpose, and it gives off the same essence of fire. His shaggy hair, that usually falls in front of his eyes, has been cut and styled making him look older, more confident, and, if I'm being honest, handsome. If that isn't enough his blue eyes appear clearer and deeper than ever before.  
"Wow," he clears his voice. "You look beautiful, Katniss."  
I blush and look at my feet, thoroughly ignoring his comment. When it becomes obvious that I'm not going to respond, everyone shifts so the doors can close behind Peeta and Effie presses the button for the main floor. The ride down is filled with quiet chatter and everyone encouraging Tommy, whose looks like he's about to cry. For once, I feel the same way. Peeta, recognizing this, moves closer to me, positioning himself slightly behind my shoulder, as if letting me know he's got my back.  
"Have you got everything sorted out?" He says in my ear.  
"Not even close," I whisper back.  
"You'll do fine." Even though I can't see him, I know which smile is filling his face—the kind, gentle one that would seem condescending on anyone else but supportive on him.  
I turn my head to look at him and our faces are inches apart. I stare into his eyes and for once let myself take comfort in the emotion there. "Shall we?" He whispers, our breathes seemingly one. I let my eyes fall to his mouth in order to comprehend his question. His lips look soft, unbelievably soft.  
Shall we what? Practice for the Interview? Leave the Capital? Kiss?  
It takes me a moment but I finally notice the arm he has offered. I shake myself out of it and reach for it. I've never been offered someone's arm before so when I grab it I twist it awkwardly. Peeta laughs warmly and the sound bounces off the small, now empty, elevator.  
I try to pull away, glaring furiously at him, but he stops me. He grabs my arms and leads them to the right position. "It's alright, Katniss," he say, his voice rich with amusement. "It takes sometime to get used to."  
"Hurry, hurry!" Effie cries and Peeta leads me out of the elevator and over to a line where all the tributes are getting ready to take the stage.  
"Any advice?" I ask nervously and I release his arm.  
He leans down and rests his lips on the shell of my ear. "When they ask about me, remember, we're violently in love." I start to nod, thinking it's actually a tip, but then he continues, "So feel free to kiss me at any time."  
I pull back from him roughly, but he just laughs and presses a kiss to my fingers. "Good luck out there, Girl on Fire." He calls as he backs away.  
I turn back to the line and see nearly every tribute is openly staring, some with curiosity and others with hostility. It's then I realize, the games don't start at the gong, they don't even start tonight. No, they started the second the broadcasting of the Reapings took place.  
They already love you, Cinna had said. The games have already started and I'm ahead. And I need to stay ahead if I'm going to win. I thought over the plans I had for tonight's interview. A dress twirl, some pretty smiles and if Peeta is brought up: fake some feeling. But I know now I have to be more than just a girl in a pretty dress.  
The line starts to move and we are led onto the stage. This year, Caesar's hair is powder blue and his eyelids and lips are coated in the same hue. He looks freakish but less frightening than he did last year when his color was crimson and he seemed to be bleeding. Caesar tells a few jokes to warm up the audience but then gets down to business. The girl tribute from District 1, looking provocative in a see-through gold gown, steps up to the center of the stage to join Caesar for her interview. You can tell her mentor didn't have any trouble coming up with an angle for her. With that flowing blonde hair, emerald green eyes, her body tall and lush... she's sexy all the way.  
Each interview only lasts three minutes. Then a buzzer goes off and the next tribute is up. I'll say this for Caesar, he really does his best to make the tributes shine. He's friendly, tries to set the nervous ones at ease, laughs at lame jokes, and can turn a weak response into a memorable one by the way he reacts.  
I sit like a lady, the way Effie showed me, as the districts slip by. 2, 3, 4. Everyone seems to be playing up some angle. The monstrous boy from District 2 is a ruthless killing machine. The fox-faced girl from District 5 sly and elusive. I spotted Cinna as soon as he took his place, but even his presence cannot relax me. 8, 9, 10. The crippled boy from 10 is very quiet. My palms are sweating like crazy, but the jeweled dress isn't absorbent and they skid right off if I try to dry them. 11. Rue, who is dressed in a gossamer gown complete with wings, flutters her way to Caesar. A hush falls over the crowd at the sight of this magical wisp of a tribute. Caesar's very sweet with her, complimenting her seven in training, an excellent score for one so small. When he asks her what her greatest strength in the arena will be, she doesn't hesitate. "I'm very hard to catch," she says in a tremulous voice. "And if they can't catch me, they can't kill me. So don't count me out."  
"I wouldn't in a million years," says Caesar encouragingly. The boy tribute from District 11, Thresh, has the same dark skin as Rue, but the resemblance stops there. He's one of the giants, probably six and a half feet tall and built like an ox, but I noticed he rejected the invitations from the Career Tributes to join their crowd. Instead he's been very solitary, speaking to no one, showing little interest in training. Even so, he scored a ten and it's not hard to imagine he impressed the Gamemakers. He ignores Caesar's attempts at banter and answers with a yes or no or just remains silent. If only I was his size, I could get away with sullen and hostile and it would be just fine! I bet half the sponsors are at least considering him. If I had any money, I'd bet on him myself. And then they're calling Katniss Everdeen, and I feel myself, as if in a dream, standing and making my way center stage. I shake Caesar's outstretched hand, and he has the good grace not to immediately wipe his off on his suit. I snap myself out of my reverie just in time to here Caesar's first comment.  
"So, Katniss, the Capitol must be quite a change from District Twelve," Caesar says cheekily.  
"Yes, Caesar. It's all very different." I state, trying to hide the dryness in my tone.  
"What's impressed you most since you arrived here?" Caesar asks and I rack my brain for something that made me happy here. Be honest, I think. Be honest.  
"The lamb stew?" I quip.  
Caesar laughs, and some of the audience has joined in. I look at the massive crowds of people and suddenly realize what Caesar is doing. He's teasing them. Everyone is waiting for him to ask about Peeta, yet here he is, asking the standard questions.  
"The one with the dried plums?" asks Caesar, carrying on the charade. I nod, almost finding a real grin for the cause. "Oh, I eat it by the bucketful." He turns sideways to the audience in horror, hand on his stomach. "It doesn't show, does it?" They shout reassurances to him and applaud.  
"Now, Katniss," he says confidentially he leans in and so do the masses. And once again he upsets them. "When you came out in the opening ceremonies, my heart actually stopped. What did you think of that costume?"  
"You mean after I got over my fear of being burned alive?" I ask. Big laugh. A real one from the audience.  
"Yes. Start then," says Caesar.  
"I thought Cinna was brilliant and it was the most gorgeous costume I'd ever seen and I couldn't believe I was wearing it. I can't believe I'm wearing this, either." I lift up my skirt to spread it out. "I mean, look at it!"  
As the audience oohs and ahhs, I see Cinna make the tiniest circular motion with his finger. But I know what he's saying. Twirl for me.  
I spin in a circle once and the reaction is immediate.  
"Oh, do that again!" says Caesar, and so I lift up my arms and spin around and around letting the skirt fly out, letting the dress engulf me in flames. The audience breaks into cheers.  
Once Caesar is able to settle them down, he brings me right into a serious mood with a quiet question. "Tell us, Katniss," he drags out the 's.' "What was going through your mind at the Reaping? When your sister, Prim's, name was called?"  
I take a deep breath, finding the emotion from that day and letting it display on my face for the camera's. "I was thinking that I couldn't do it again," I answered honestly.  
"Do what again?"  
Be honest. Use your love for Prim, I told myself.  
"Watch someone I lo—" my voice cracks here, the concept of loving anyone else foreign. But the audience takes it as a sign of the sincerity of the comment. I clear my throat, "To watch them fight for their lives, never knowing if this was the last time you were ever going to see them. That you were going to go to sleep and when you woke up, find out they're gone. I couldn't watch my baby sister—I couldn't watch her like I had to watch Peeta."  
The audience sighs and Caesar reaches out and pats my hand. "I'm sure that was very difficult for you." I swallow and look down at my dress. Then Caesar finally puts the crowd out of its misery. "So, Mr Peeta Mellark, our dearest victor. What happened when he came home? Did you meet him at the train station?"  
I shook my head and whispered "no."  
"No?" Caesar cried along with half the audience. "Why ever not?"  
Be honest: I was poaching in the woods with Gale. Scratch that, lie: I wanted our reunion to be private. No, be. . . In love:  
"You have to understand," I start and the world goes silent. "I didn't know him. Not really. All I knew was that this boy announced he loved me to the whole country."  
"But Katniss," Caesar protested slowly. "The bread. . ."  
"That bread saved my life. But Peeta. . . Peeta Mellark was untouchable, like looking at stars through a crack in the roof. He was so far out of reach that I never imagined I meant anything to him, I didn't even know he remembered me. Then his name was called and I thought it was too late, that I'd never get to thank him for what he'd done. He told everyone he loved me and I thought he was joking.  
"And then he was home and—and if he was already untouchable, now he was. . ." I fade off, grasping for words. "Prim and I go into town every Sunday and look at the cakes from the Bakery window and Rye, Peeta's older brother came out, and he asked me to go see him. So I did and, well, you know Peeta." I finally let myself search him out in the crowd. Our eyes lock and I know he's remembering those first meetings as well. I don't know when I slipped into actuality or how much of it was true. I've stopped speaking. Caesar notices my stare fixed over his shoulder and follows my gaze. "And he hasn't let me leave," I whisper.  
The entire crowd erupts as the cameras pick up what has caught Caesars attention. Peeta's smile, spreading wider that I had ever seen it before, is being broadcasted all over Panem. As the buzzer sounds ending my three minutes, Caesar's cry of 'the girl on fire' rings through the chaos, but more importantly, were his words later that night that would sound in every corner of the Capital, "Katniss Everdeen: the girl on fire, or the girl in love?"  
Peeta:  
I put on a smile and greeted her after the interview, let her know she did a good job, then went to my room. I wanted to kiss her so bad, but I know I can't, because what she said was an act. Haymitch told her what to say, it was all fake.  
I don't drink, I don't like what it does. Takes away your senses, your logic. I never welcomed that solution to get rid of the horrors or the nightmares of my games, and yet, I find myself pouring one now.  
Tomorrow Katniss, the only girl I have ever and will ever love, is going into an arena with people whose plan is to take her out first. All I want is to keep her by my side forever and yet, even if, by some miracle, she emerges the Victor, she will not stand by me. But I would still be happy to give my life to stand by her's.  
I throw back the glass, the expensive whiskey burning my throat. I shouldn't be drinking, I need a clear head tomorrow for the start of her games. I'll need to be securing sponsors, not nursing a hangover. I refill my glass.  
A knocking at my door halts my decent into the drunkards. I walk over and open the door, surprised to see the subject of my thoughts.  
"Peeta," she breathes and in an uncharacteristic move, throws her arms around me.  
My eyes shut by themselves as her scent floods the air around me. She buries her head in my chest, her hair tickling my chin. "Katniss?" I ask as my hands come up to hold her, one cradling her head and the other covering the small of her back. "What's wrong?"  
She's shaking a little but other than that, no signs of vulnerability show. "How was I actually?" She whispers.  
The interview. "You were good, really good," I get out, my voice only slightly strained. "Almost had me convinced." And that's the alcohol—no logic.  
She freezes. "I should go."  
She turns to the door but I grab her arm. "Don't. Do you have a strategy for the games tomorrow?"  
She nods. "Run. Find water. No fires but keep warm. If something moves, shoot it."  
"The Cornucopia, where all the weapons are, the Gamemakers are going to want to draw as many people in as they can, so when the games start turn and run."  
"I know." But her eyes glance away from me.  
"Katniss," I grab both her arms, shaking her slightly. "There's going to be a bow there, but you can't go get it."  
She yanks herself away, glaring at me. "Why not? Its for me."  
"Please," the desperation clear in my voice. "Katniss, a third of you will die in the initial blood bath. It can't be you."  
"It won't be."  
"Damn right, because you're not going to be anywhere near it."  
"Peeta—" she says exasperated.  
"No! Katniss, please. Yes, you have to be aggressive, but you have to be cautious as well. For Prim, for Gale, for me. This will be the hardest thing you have ever done. These people aren't deer. They fight back, they plan, they reason. And at the end of the games the faces of every person you killed will haunt your dreams and twist your reality. If you go into the blood bath you will kill or be killed."  
She opens her mouth to object again but I push her against the wall, trapping her.  
"You're fast, yes, but I can guarantee you you will not be faster than the male tributes from One and Two. What happens when they get in between you and your bow? What then?"  
I fix my intense gaze on her. When she doesn't respond, I slam my palms into the wall on both sides of her head. "What then Katniss?" I shout.  
"I don't know!" She yells back.  
"You die!" I hit the wall again, letting the anger dissipate. I fall forward onto my forearms, bringing me closer to the source of my affliction. "You die, Katniss."  
"Peeta," she says softly this time and I know I finally got through to her.  
I lean my forehead on hers. "You can't die on me Katniss."  
"I won't, Peeta, I swear."  
"You can't leave me." I bring my mouth to hover over her lips, our continued close proximity giving me courage.  
"Peeta," she begs. I know the feeling. Could some of what she said in the interview be true? I start to lower my head.  
"What the hell is going on?" Haymitch comes running through the open door followed by Effie and Cinna. It takes Haymitch less than a second to notice how close we were standing and to take in the position we were conversing in.  
Katniss shoves me back from her. "Nothing." She barely spares in a glance before she pushes her way through our interrupters and disappears.  
"We heard shouting." Effie states as if that was an excuse. They all looked shocked and a little apologetic.  
"Yeah, we were, um, discussing her strategy for tomorrow." I run my hand through my hair, staring at the spot she almost let me kiss her.  
"We're sorry, Peeta," Cinna says. "We wouldn't have dreamed of interrupting if we had known."  
"It's not a big deal." You just destroyed the only chance I had at fulfilling my life long dream. "Did you need something or. . ."  
"No, we'll leave you. Try to get some sleep, Peeta." Cinna and Effie leave.  
Once they're gone, Haymitch immediately starts to laugh. "Boy, thats some bad luck."  
"Get out Haymitch."  
He tries to say something else but in his intoxicated state he seems to almost fall over from the force of his laughter. Not in the mood for him, I push him out and slam the door. I look back over at the wall where I almost kissed Katniss Everdeen.  
"Damnit!" I yell. Obviously hearing me even through the door, Haymitch's chuckling starts again. I'm not getting any sleep tonight.


	6. Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven

Katniss:  
~Present~  
There was a guy a few years ago from District 6 called Titus. He went completely savage and the Gamemakers had to have him stunned with electric guns to collect the bodies of the players he'd killed before he ate them. There are no rules in the arena, but cannibalism doesn't play well with the Capitol audience, so they tried to head it off. There was some speculation natural disaster that finally took Titus out and it was specifically engineered to ensure the victor was not a lunatic.  
This is how I decide to spend the next several hours before dawn, evaluating all the ways the games have unspoken rules, lines you don't cross, and people you don't want to kill.  
A couple hours after I 'went to sleep,' my door opens quietly. From the silhouette I know its Peeta. I reach out my hand and his body moves as if attached by some intangible rope. As he approaches, I scoot over in the large bed and he climbs in.  
"Have you gotten any sleep?" He gently asks.  
I shake my head, our eyes locked in the darkness. He sighs and then pulls my against him. I lay with my head on his chest, his fingers lightly trailing every inch of my revealed skin. Usually I'd never let him do this, but I crave touch. Starting in just a few hours the only human contact I'll have will be hurting someone, or being hurt by someone. I need this.  
In a purely Peeta moment, his nose resting on my forehead, he says, "I'm sorry I yelled."  
I know I should be shocked, because he had every right to lose his patience and yell a little, but then, this is Peeta. Someone like me should never be allowed to be near someone like him. I'll taint him. "Don't be."  
We're quiet for a while.  
"But I'm not sorry for what I said." I try to move away but his arms are wrapped like a vice around me. "Just promise me you'll be careful."  
I say nothing and his chest heaves with a heavy sigh as he accepts my silence. We don't talk again, both needing these few moments of peace before the hell-storm ahead of us, but we don't sleep either.  
Cinna comes to me just as the room is being painted pink and orange by the sunrise. He gives me a simple shift to wear and I pull it over my pajamas. He whispers, "Five minutes," before leaving the room.  
I'm instantly wrapped in Peeta's arms, panic permeating my body at the thought of having to untangle myself. After a while he starts mumbling into my hair, "You're gonna come out, Katniss. You're gonna—" his voice breaks so instead he placed a hard kiss to my hairline.  
Cinna opens the door again. I find the air around me thinning. I can't breathe. "Katniss, we have to go."  
"No," I choke out, and tighten my death grip on Peeta.  
"Hey—look at me—look at me—I'll see you soon—I'll see you soon."  
"Peeta, we can't be late." Cinna begs.  
I ignore them, trying to take in everything about the arms and chest that are holding me. The scent, the safety, the love. I know I shouldn't, but I'm too selfish not to.  
"Peeta," Cinna stresses and before I can comprehend what is happening, I'm swept off the floor and we're moving thru the apartment, headed towards the roof.  
We stop at the base of the stairs and Peeta says, "She'll be right up."  
Cinna looks like he's about to object but goes up anyway.  
"Katniss," Peeta sits me on one of the stairs. "You can't be like this. You can't afford to lose your focus. Not now. The moment you panic is the moment you die. Remember, there is always a solution, you just have to clear your head enough to find it."  
I nod, but still feel the cloud of impending hysteria over my head.  
He sees this, of course he does. "We're gonna take three deep breaths, and when they're done, you'll be focused, you'll be ready."  
He rests his forehead on mine, closing his eyes he starts. He breathes in, and I find myself doing the same. I gather all the distractions bouncing around in my head. Out, I push them out of my body. "One."  
In, I find that cloud of hysteria, of fear. Out, it's gone. "Two."  
In, all the uncertainty. Out. "Three."  
I'm ready.  
I turn and run up the stairs, not allowing myself a single look at the boy who probably just saved my life. Again. Cinna looks relieved as I walk out onto the roof. A hovercraft appears out of thin air, just like the one did in the woods the day I saw the redheaded Avox girl captured, and a ladder drops down. I place my hands and feet on the lower rungs and instantly it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current glues me to the ladder while I'm lifted safely inside. I expect the ladder to release me then, but I'm still stuck when a woman in a white coat approaches me carrying a syringe.  
"This is just your tracker, Katniss. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.  
Still? I'm a statue. But that doesn't prevent me from feeling the sharp stab of pain as the needle inserts the metal tracking device deep under the skin on the inside of my forearm. Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereabouts in the arena. Wouldn't want to lose a tribute.  
As soon as the tracker's in place, the ladder releases me. The woman disappears and Cinna is retrieved from the roof, An Avox boy comes in and directs us to a room where breakfast has been laid out. Despite the tension in my stomach, I eat as much as I can, although none of the delectable food makes any impression on me. I'm so nervous, I could be eating coal dust. The one thing that distracts me at all is the view from the windows as we sail over the city and then to the wilderness beyond. This is what birds see. Only they're free and safe. The very opposite of me.  
The ride lasts about half an hour before the windows black out, suggesting that we're nearing the arena. The hovercraft lands and Cinna and I go back to the ladder, only this time it leads down into a tube underground, into the catacombs that lie beneath the arena. We follow instructions to my destination, a chamber for my preparation. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In the districts, it's referred to as the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter. Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute to use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments. They say the food is excellent.  
I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth. Cinna does my hair in my simple trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes arrive, the same for every tribute. Cinna has had no say in my outfit, does not even know what will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the undergarments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy brown belt, and thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my thighs.  
"The material in the jacket's designed to reflect body heat. Expect some cool nights," he says.  
The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I could have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at home. These have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads though. Good for have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads though. Good for running.  
I think I'm finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. I had completely forgotten about it.  
"Where did you get that?" I ask.  
"Off the green outfit you wore on the train," he says. I remember now taking it off my mother's dress, pinning it to the shirt. "It's your district token, right?" I nod and he fastens it on my shirt. "It barely cleared the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually, they let it through," says Cinna. "They eliminated a ring from that District One girl, though. If you twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way to prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you're all set. Move around. Make sure everything feels comfortable."  
I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. "Yes, it's fine. Fits perfectly."  
"Then there's nothing to do but wait for the call," says Cinna.  
"Unless you think you could eat any more?"  
I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait on a couch. I don't want to chew on my nails or lips, so I find myself gnawing on the inside of my cheek. It still hasn't fully healed from a few days ago. Soon the taste of blood fills my mouth.  
Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.  
"Do you want to talk, Katniss?" Cinna asks.  
I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. Its not as comforting as Peeta's would have been, but I consider Cinna as a friend. And this is how we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it's time to prepare for launch. Still clenching one of Cinna's hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. "Remember what your Mentors said. Run, find water. The rest will follow," he says. "Between your score, your interview, and Peeta, you won't have a shortage of sponsors, so you don't need a lot on the natural causes side."  
I smile a little.  
"And remember this. I'm not allowed to bet, but if I could, my money would be on you."  
"Truly?" I whisper.  
"Truly," says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. "Good luck, girl on fire." And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high. I lift my chin and stand as straight as I can. The cylinder begins to rise. For maybe fifteen seconds, I'm in darkness and then I can feel the metal plate pushing me out of the cylinder, into the open air. For a moment, my eyes are dazzled by the bright sunlight and I'm conscious only of a strong wind with the hopeful smell of pine trees.  
Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Temple, as his voice booms all around me.  
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"  
~Last Year~  
It's been two weeks since my visit to Peeta Mellark. With the district still more generous than normal, Gale and I have been breaking even—what Gale and I consider being able to feed both our families—with a little game left over. For the Hawthornes, this means Gale will actually eat at meal times, not having to portion out his own food for the sake of his siblings. And of course, thanks to his Seam pride, he makes us split the surplus. But thats the thing, we haven't even been close to having surplus food since Dad died. The steady build up of a few extra coins has made for a completely different atmosphere in Twelve.  
I asked around, about the excess of, well, people who aren't starving, and some say they remember the year following Haymitch's games to have been similar. At the end of the day, it seems to good to be true. I keep waiting for something awful to happen or for someone to jump out and say 'gotcha.'  
Despite the fact that I know I should find a way to save some of the meat, or make it coin and save that, I seem to be cursed with the same pride complex as every other bastard who lives and breaths the coal dust of Twelve. So, every third day, before dawn, I find myself leaving a squirrel on the back porch of Peeta Mellark's house.  
"Katniss?" Peeta is sitting on his stairs, hands covered in flour, clothes covered in paint. I look up at the sun. It was late, the Hob took longer than I thought.  
I freeze, staring at the boy with the bread.  
He sighs. "Katniss, are you ever going to talk to me?"  
I shrug and move to drop the squirrel on his steps like normal.  
"Oh," he starts to stand. "Let me get you some bread."  
I hate that he does this. It only makes trying to repay him that much harder. "You already did."  
Peeta looks back, confused.  
"That day in the rain."  
His brow scrunches, just visible beneath his bangs. "When we were kids?"  
I nod.  
"You don't need to repay me for that. It wasn't a trade, it was barely a gift." His eyes are filled with a sort of pity and it irks me to no end.  
"Why did you do it?" I demand.  
"I—" his eyes find mine with purpose. "You know why," he says quietly.  
He interview. The games. Suddenly the air itself is uncomfortable and I want to be any where else.  
So I run. I turn and I run, ignoring his call of my name and not stopping until I get back into the woods.  
~Present~  
Sixty seconds. That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in the arena.  
Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a three foot square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tributes. Which I have been instructed not to do by Haymitch and Cinna, and begged not to do by Peeta.  
We're on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard-packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney woods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately. I hear his instructions in my head. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water."  
But it's tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting there before me. And I know that if I don't get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That's mine, I think. It's meant for me. I'm fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school although a couple can beat me in distance races. But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how quickly can I get out of there? By the time I've scrambled up the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick off, but say there's a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down with the spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists. Still, I won't be the only target. I'm betting many of the other tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.  
"Please, Katniss." His voice rings through my head as if he sent it to me from where ever he was watching the games.  
My time is half up, and I know I need a plan. I look back at the bow with regret and curse Peeta colorfully. Fine, I think. Play it safe.  
In the closest proximity of my stand are the plastic sheet, a loaf of bread, a thin tarp like bundle, a fire-starter kit, and an orange backpack. I quickly evaluate the usefulness of each, coming up with a plan. I don't need the kit, I know how to start a fire if necessary; the bread won't help, I'll hunt in the forest; the tarp, the plastic, and the backpack are my goal. I could use a weapon but those are too close to the Cornucopia.  
I hear a robotic voice start the countdown. I'm ready. I take my position, leaning in to the direction of supplies. I find myself swaying slightly as I visualize my path.  
Ten.  
Plastic, tarp, pack. Plastic, tarp, pack. . .  
Nine.  
God, if you're up there. . .  
Eight.  
Prim. Gale. Peeta. Me. . .  
Seven.  
I will win this.


	7. Six, Five, Four, Three

Peeta:  
~Present~  
I watch as Katniss pulls away from me and flees up the stairs like a silent doe. I take in the sight of her retreating form—a sight all too familiar and none too comforting— but at the moment I'll take whatever I have left. The door to the roof slams and I can hear the faint humming of the hovercraft.  
She's gone and now all I can do hope that I'll see her again. But even if she does come out, she'll never be the same. She'll be haunted by the memories of the brutality. Sentenced to reliving the games every night for the rest of her life. Left broken by the acts that saved her.  
I promise myself I'll be there for her. She won't have to go through it alone. There's a language only victors speak, its one of pain, one of loss, but one of survival. I won't let her waste away. She will have to send me away.  
A few minutes after I finish my breakfast, a Prep Team, I think Katniss', are in a flurry around me. I'm almost positive they won't be doing this to Haymitch, but the more attractive I look, the more receptive sponsors will be. I hope.  
Effie comes to collect me about a half hour later, corralling Haymitch and I into the elevator.  
"Where do we watch the games?" I ask Haymitch who is as promised: sober.  
"Its know to the Capital as The Casino, but the Victors call it the Sponsor Lounge. Its a large room with hundreds of televisions, game tables, betting booths, and the best drink bar in Panem. Thats where we'll be most of the time."  
"Any private suites?" I really hope I don't have to be on display for the worst two weeks of my entire life. I've already done that once and I don't want a repeat. The closer we get to the start of the games, the more I'm convinced that watching Katniss do this will be infinitely harder than it was doing it myself.  
"There are some." Haymitch smirks. "But I don't think you're into the kinda stuff that happens behind closed doors." It takes me a moment to get what he's hinting, maybe even longer than I'd probably admit to anyone, but when I do I wish it I didn't. Its disgusting, the way the Capital whores themselves out. I know its not just the Capital, its people in general. Back in Twelve, guys brag about their Slag Heap conquests. Including Rye. But everything always seems so amplified here.  
"And all our sponsors will be there?" I can hardly see every Capital citizen enjoying a place like that. But then, they all enjoy watching kids slaughter each other so why not?  
"No. Some will request meetings, others will call in. And every Saturday for the duration of the games will be a party held at the Presidential Mansion. That usually why the Games last at least two weeks, that way there are two parties. One ticket would probably feed Twelve for three months."  
"Now, Haymitch," Effie sighs. "Its no just about money, no, its very eloquent, Peeta."  
"I'm sure," I mumble as we leave the elevator.  
"In fact, I've gotten to go to nearly every event at the Mansion since your victory as VIP. I get an invitation. There's no more waiting outside the red tape, no more tickets, no more shadow." She is smiling so brightly I can't even think of a comment that would dim her prideful speech.  
But Haymitch seems to find one. "Until there's a new Victor and you're no longer the center of everyone's envy."  
She falters for a moment before her smiles back. "Nonsense! Katniss will be crowned Victor this year and I will forever be the escort of the Star Crossed Lovers." She looked off dreamily.  
The Sponsor Lounge ends up being across the street from the Tribute Center. Its not quite as dismal as Haymitch described but then the games haven't started yet and the sun is still rising. Although Haymitch said there was no private rooms, there is a fine definition between where each district sits and the sponsors. Twelve's area is in the back right corner.  
Its a raised platform, all the district boxes are, about five feet off the ground. The small stair case and the floor of the platform look like they are made of a black glass. A strange couch lines about half of the side by the stairs, comes to a corner, lines the right side and then corners again and goes back up the wall side to the other edge of the floor. A ball-like chandelier hangs down from the celling above it and a desk, a coffee table and a few lamps fill in the rest of the space. I sit down on the part of the couch that is turned away from the room.  
"Here." Haymitch hands me a black sheet. "Tap the screen three times."  
I do and it lights up. The now grey screen flashes the words: Video Unavailable a few times before returning to its black state. "What is it?"  
"A tablet. It will show you exactly where Katniss is at anytime during the games, not just what the gamemakers decide to show. Twenty-four hour coverage only for the mentors. It'll turn on once the games start."  
"Thank you." I say, grateful that something like this exists. I think about how I wouldn't have gotten this privilege if I was sitting at home. If I had never been called and I was just the baker's son to her still. If I had to watch her helplessly from my house or the square.  
"What you thinking, boy?"  
"That if I had to do it all again, the games, the kills, I'd do it. Just to be here for her now. To be able to do something and not just sit a home, wondering if the girl I never told I loved would be dead or dying the next time the gamemakers thought it convenient to show her."  
Haymitch rests a hand on my shoulder. Knowing that I didn't need words right now, he didn't talk, but it was enough.  
"Mr Mellark." A low voice said behind me.  
Haymitch's hand flexes on my shoulder telling me to stay seated and not turn around.  
"Yes?" Haymitch answers for me.  
"President Snow has requested an audience."  
The breath is stolen right from my lungs. President Snow? What could he possibly want with me? I try to stand, my vision either too focused or not at all. I make eye contact with Haymitch and I know whatever it is he wants, it can't be good. I move to the stairs and Haymitch follows me, forever the mentor.  
"Only Mr Mellark." The man speaks again. He was tall, muscular, and in uniform but it wasn't the usual Peacekeeper uniform, it was the garb of Snow's personal guards.  
"I'll be back soon, Haymitch." I say, more a hope than a fact.  
"We've got work to do when you get back, boy." But his eyes are on the guard not me.  
I follow the man out of The Casino and we take a car for about six minutes. We stop in front of the Presidential Mansion. I'm led through the maze of hallways into a wing I never got to go to during the party or tour.  
The guard opens a door and I cautiously walk in. And there he was, sitting at his desk with a white rose pinned to his suit.  
"Mr. Peeta Mellark."  
"President Snow, what an honor."  
"Mr Mellark, I think we can make this so much simpler if we agree not to lie to each other. What do you think?"  
"Yes, I believe that would save time."  
"Sit." He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. "Now that that is settled, how are you?"  
"As well as to be expected."  
"Yes," he smiles ruefully. It looks unnatural and tight on his face. "Miss Everdeen's games. If you hadn't guessed already, that is what I have brought you here to discuss."  
"I had thought that was the most logical explanation." The fingers on my right hand wouldn't still, as if they were rolling around an invisible ball on my palm.  
"Smart boy," he croons. "Would you believe me if I said that I would like us to be friends?"  
"Friends, Sir?"  
"If not friends, allies." He waves it off as if the words were interchangeable. "The people of the Capital like you, Mr. Mellark. They like your story. It won you their hearts last year, and it is winning you and your tribute their love again this year."  
"And does this make us friends, President Snow? I doubt you'd be infatuated by a tributes love story." He doesn't seem hostile. Is that a good thing?  
He laughs, low and deep in his chest, but there's a wheeze in it as well and it sends spiders down my spine. "No, you are quite right. Although I do not question your affection, the scale seems perhaps uneven. But I have no doubt you will fix that over time."  
Did he just. . . I clear my throat, "Over time, Sir?"  
"There are many perks to being a victor, Mr. Mellark." He states, ignoring my inquiry. "And many more extended to friends. This includes the exemption of loved ones from the games. You have been a model victor for the last year, I have no quarrel with you, and I have even been looking forward to this meeting. So go ahead, ask me the question you have been dying to since you walked in."  
"Why Katniss?" My mouth asks before I could maybe think better of it.  
"As you're aware, each year the district escort picks from large glass containers. The Head Gamemaker that year is in charge of the shape, size, and color. Its one of the ways they can leave a signature on the games. After the bowls are chosen they are filled with the names of every child between the ages of twelve and eighteen. This is where the names of family members are taken out." Or put in, I think.  
"And this is where Seneca Crane made his mistake. The pathetic excuse of a Head Gamemaker removed your brother, Brandon's, name, your friend, Miss Cartwright, as well as the older Miss Everdeen. Apparently he had seen that the young one had only one slip and not bothered to remove it. A judgement lapse on his part that he will not be around to make next year. He will be dealt with accordingly at the end of the games. But for now. . ." he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands carefully.  
"I have no doubt your girl on fire will have any trouble getting sponsors. Nor much trouble surviving if the eleven proves anything. But, whatever problem she does run in to, be it wound or hunger, and you do not have the necessary funds to provide it, I will have a representative down in The Casino. Call on him if the situation is dire. He will provide anything that Miss Everdeen needs."  
Something felt wrong—everything felt wrong. Why was he doing this? He had to have an end game, some alternative motive. In fact I knew he did. But I knew he was waiting for my answer so I nod stiffly. "Thank you, Sir."  
He reaches out to shake my hand. "I like you, Peeta. We can either be great friends, or great adversaries. I'm sure you will chose the path in our best interests."  
The use of my first name doesn't sit well with me. It sinks like a coin in water and settles in the pit of my stomach. There's always a catch. But for now I have to take it. I can't risk my family, I can't risk Katniss. And I have no logical reason to rebel against him.  
As I'm escorted back thru the mansion and down to the car, I refocus on the task ahead. Katniss' games. No sponsors, no money, not even presidential support will mean anything if she gets caught up in the bloodbath. I can't do a damn thing until she runs as fast and as far from the death trap as possible. Oh God, let her run.  
When I get back to the Sponsor Lounge, Finnick Odair is sitting in our District box. He is leaned back in the chair, one leg pulled up and face drawn into a smirk, perfectly comfortable letting every female in this place openly stare.  
"Peeta," he nods to me as I take the few steps up to the box.  
"Finnick," I acknowledge tightly. I still haven't made up my mind about the notorious victor. His careless, swaggered act is always in place, but after the games I no longer take things at face value. Nothing is ever as it seems and Finnick Odair's face is full of secrets. And with the uneasiness left over from my visit with Snow, I can't help but wonder whose.  
"How was your talk?" Finnick asks, something is showing in his eyes but I can't put my finger on it. It's probably amusement. I've never seen the guy anything but amused.  
I glance at Haymitch before answering. "It was fine, just welcoming me back to the Capital."  
"I'm sure," but his tone is sarcastic.  
Haymitch steps in. "Feel free to stop back in soon, Finnick."  
The twenty-four year old didn't look shocked at the obvious dismissal. Instead he somehow managed to widen that self-satisfied smirk he didn't drop once during our conversation, and turned to Haymitch. "Hopefully our next meeting won't be as late as last year."  
Lat year. The twinge of sadness in his eyes. Teller. Teller was from four.  
Haymitch cuts me a look but before he can comment, Finnick continues, "Our male tribute this year is young. There seems to be a lot of twelve year olds."  
"I noticed that as well. Is your female in the Career pack?"  
"Yeah, Delainee. I heard that Katniss got invited this year. Why did you refuse?"  
"I don't trust the girl not to piss them off." Haymitch says plainly.  
Finnick laughs, deep and loud, causing half the room to look. Then shakes his head and heads back over to his District box.  
Haymitch looks like he wants to ask me about the meeting but then thinks better about it. "We'll talk about it later. The games begin in a few minutes."  
As if on cue the screens change from a picture of Claudius Temple and Caesar Flickerman to the first image of the cornucopia. They did a quick sweep of the arena: a large field of barley or wheat, a lake, and a forest. I nod to myself,the arena's not too bad; Katniss could beat this. Although its not like the forest we have back in Twelve, its similar enough. There doesn't look to be any terrain which in itself is a trap. Not like the poisoned swamp last year. The faux climate is set at a seemingly mild temperature but that will most likely change once the games begin. But the setting will not allow for floods, blizzards or twisters so that leaves extremely hot days or below freezing nights. Over all pretty fair. Well, as fair as the Hunger Games have ever been.  
"And here they come!" Caesar cries as the top of the platforms slides away revealing long tubes into the ground. And then you can see their heads and the room erupts into cheers and excited screams.  
I quickly grab the tablet Haymitch gave me earlier. It turned on. I watch as Katniss rises from the ground. She's between the female from Four and the male from Nine. Delainee's dangerous, Katniss could hold her own but if she didn't get to a bow she might as well be any past tribute from Twelve. The boy on her right is just that, a boy no more than thirteen. Finnick was right, there was a good number of young ones this year.  
Katniss quickly looks around, taking in the surrounding area quickly. Her gaze pauses over the forest and I know that she has just decided where she will run. Then her eyes sweep around the tributes to the cornucopia. She locks on to the bow at the mouth.  
No.  
She's carefully studying the path way, glancing around at her competition, trying to weigh the pros and cons of going after the weapon.  
Please, Katniss, don't do this.  
She stiffens slightly, most wouldn't notice but after spending nearly all my life watching the way she does things, I know something just happened. And it irritated her. Her scowl replaces the look of confliction and her focus moves from the cornucopia to the supplies scattered around it. As she maps out the closest items, her entire body shifts. I let out a sigh of relief. She was going to run.  
"Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen. . ." The room of alcohol induced sponsors and wealthy patrons call out as the timer clicks closer to zero.  
"Ten, nine, eight!" Effie cries clapping her hands excitedly and bouncing a little in her heels.  
"Seven." Haymitch mutters under his breath like a curse.  
"Six." I grip the tablet tightly, wishing I could hold onto its subject and protect her from the horrors that await her in. . .  
Five.  
Time slows and the room darkens. The loud cacophony fades into background noise.  
I've heard that a second, if used well, can last a life time. One second longer, one second closer. These last seconds of safety, represent everything I need to stop moving forward.  
Four.  
I could say I held my breath, I could say I cursed my weaknesses, I could say I blamed myself, but I don't. I don't do anything. I'm frozen on that pedestal with her and we are about to spring.  
Three seconds left. Its a life time.


	8. The 74th Hunger Games

Katniss:  
~Present~  
Two. One. The gong sounds and I spring into action. Six steps off the platform and I already have the plastic and the tarp. I grab the orange pack and turn to run. To my left I see the boy from Nine sprinting towards me, or rather the pack I now possess. I swear silently. Was the bag even too much of a risk?  
I'm willing my legs to go faster when he drops from my peripheral vision. I get to the edge of the forest and look back. He's face down on the grass. The girl from Two stands over him watching me, I guess I'm too far out of range. Our eyes lock and I know she won't pursue me. She'll be drawn back to the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone.  
About half a dozen or so tributes are hacking away at one another at the horn. Several more lie dead already on the ground. Those who are taking flight are disappearing from my view or already have. I'm glad I chose the route I did, but I can't help but wonder if I'll be thinking that the first time I really need that bow.  
I head into the forest at a quick jog, fast enough to put some distance between me and the Careers, but slow enough so I'll have enough energy to search for water. For the next few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking. I slow to put my tarp and plastic into my backpack but don't dare to stop and check what else lies within. I just keep moving, pausing completely only to check for pursuers.  
I'll be able to go a long time, I know this from my days in the woods. The pack, while adding annoying weight, is nothing compared to a small buck or even a large turkey. But I do need water. That was the second part of the plan, and since I seem to be keeping to it, I sharpen my eye for signs of water. I don't have any luck.  
The woods begin to evolve, and the pines are intermixed with a variety of trees, some I recognize, some completely foreign to me. At one point, I hear a noise fall to the ground, grab a rock, and roll up to one knee, thinking I may have to defend myself, but I've only startled a rabbit. "Good to see you," I whisper. If there's one rabbit, there could be hundreds just waiting to be snared. But I don't have a knife to skin one anyway.  
The ground slopes down. I don't particularly like this. Valleys make me feel trapped. I want to be high, like in the hills around District 12, where I can see my enemies approaching. But I have no choice but to keep going. Plus, rivers usually run through valleys.  
Funny though, I don't feel too bad. The days of gorging myself have paid off. I've got staying power even though I'm short on sleep. I think back to last night and how Peeta came to check on me. I wonder why he did as I take a big step over a rock.  
Being in the woods is rejuvenating. I'm glad for the solitude, even though it's an illusion, because I'm probably on-screen right now. Not consistently but off and on. There are so many deaths to show the first day that a tribute trekking through the woods isn't much to look at. But they'll show me enough to let people know I'm alive, uninjured and on the move. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when the initial casualties come in. But that can't compare to what happens as the field shrinks to a handful of players.  
It's late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. They never collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day, they don't even fire the cannons until the initial fighting's over because it's too hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to pause, panting, as I count the shots. One. two. three. on and on until they reach eleven. Eleven dead in all. Thirteen left to play. Twelve more until I can go home.  
I wonder briefly about Tommy. Has he lasted through the day? I'll know in a few hours. When they project the dead's images into the sky for the rest of us to see. I should probably feel bad that he doesn't have a more concerned co-district tribute.  
All of a sudden, I'm overwhelmed by the thought that Legacy could have felt this way about Peeta. That maybe she hadn't cared that he may have been already lost, bled white, collected, and in the process of being transported back to the Capitol to be cleaned up, redressed, and shipped in a simple wooden box back to District 12. No longer there. Heading home. The thought that he could have been anything but the Victor last year makes me swallow hard in my throat. I have to remind myself that he's still here. He's alive. He's waiting.  
Still, it might be better if Tommy's gone already. He had no confidence he could win, no one really did. And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him. Maybe it's better if he's out of this for good.  
I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I need to go through it anyway before night falls. See what I have to work with. As I unhook the straps, I can feel it's sturdily made although a rather unfortunate color. This orange will practically glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow.  
I flip open the flap. What I want most, right at this moment, is water. Haymitch and Peeta's directive to immediately find water was not arbitrary. I won't last long without it. For a few days, I'll be able to function with unpleasant symptoms of dehydration, but after that I'll deteriorate into helplessness and be dead in a week, tops.  
I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heal. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry.  
No water. How hard would it have been for them to fill up the bottle? I become aware of the dryness in my throat and mouth, the cracks in my lips. I've been moving all day long. It's been hot and I've sweat a lot. I do this at home, but there are always streams to drink from, or snow to melt if it should come to it.  
As I refill my pack I have an awful thought. The lake. The one I saw while I was waiting for the gong to sound. What if that's the only water source in the arena? That way they'll guarantee drawing us in to fight. The lake is a full day's journey from where I sit now, a much harder journey with nothing to drink. And then, even if I reach it, it's sure to be heavily guarded by some of the Career Tributes. I'm about to panic when I remember the rabbit I startled earlier today. It has to drink, too. I just have to find out where.  
I pull my pack back over my shoulder but notice my shoelace somehow came untied. I never double knot them but I assume I can make an exception. The last thing I need is for it to trip me when I have a run in with the Careers. Peeta's obsession with tying them a certain way now makes sense. I straighten up but pause when I notice something in my path. A silver box with a parachute attached. A sponsor gift.  
I race the few steps over to the box and quickly remove the parachute, careful not to rip it but discarding it for whatever lies within the box. As I open it, the air is filled with the smell of fresh bread. "Peeta," I sigh involuntarily.  
I momentarily forget the bread as my eyes finally register what else is in the box. Water. I screw the lid off and take a big gulp before  
I break open the small loaf and bring it up to my nose. The smell bringing me back to a warm kitchen every Tuesday and Thursday. I suddenly realize thats the point. This is like the bread he would leave for me as a thank you when I came to drop off the squirrels. I could almost hear his voice, "Thank you. Thank you for running. Thank you for looking for water. Thank you for sticking to the plan. Thank you."  
I look up to the sky and smile, knowing the cameras would get my message to my boy with the bread. I eat half of the bread and fill up my reusable water bottle from the strange cartoon I had gotten from Peeta. I wrap the other half of the bread in the plastic sheet and hide it away with the crackers and beef. Two items, even if they came at the same time, this early in the game meant I must have had very generous donors. Zipping up the pack, I take off, much more optimistic about the night now that I had eaten and drank.  
Twilight is closing in and I'm still heading downhill, deeper and deeper into a valley that seems endless. In another hour, it's clear I've got to find a place to camp. Night creatures are coming out. I can hear the occasional hoot or howl, my first clue that I'll be competing with natural predators for the rabbits. As to whether I'll be viewed as a source of food, it's too soon to tell. There could be any number of animals stalking me at this moment.  
But right now, I decide to make my fellow tributes a priority. I'm sure many will continue hunting through the night. Those who fought it out at the Cornucopia will have food, an abundance of water from the lake, torches or flashlights, and weapons they're itching to use. I can only hope I've traveled far and fast enough to be out of range.  
Before settling down, I take my wire and set two twitch-up snares in the brush. I know it's risky to be setting traps, but food will go so fast out here. And I can't set snares on the run. Still, I walk another five minutes before making camp.  
I pick my tree carefully. A willow, not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in those long, flowing tresses. I climb up, sticking to the stronger branches close to the trunk, and find a sturdy fork for my bed. It takes some doing, but I arrange the sleeping bag in a relatively comfortable manner. I place my backpack in the foot of the bag, then slide in after it. As a precaution, I remove my belt, loop it all the way around the branch and my sleeping bag, and refasten it at my waist. Now if I roll over in my sleep, I won't go crashing to the ground. I'm small enough to tuck the top of the bag over my head, but I put on my hood as well. As night falls, the air is cooling quickly. Despite the risk I took in getting the backpack, I know now it was the right choice. This sleeping bag, radiating back and preserving my body heat, will be invaluable. I'm sure there are several other tributes whose biggest concern right now is how to stay warm whereas I may actually be able to get a few hours of sleep.  
Night has just come when I hear the anthem that proceeds the death recap. Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol, which appears to be floating in the sky. I'm actually viewing another screen, an enormous one that's transported by of one of their disappearing hovercraft. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark for a moment. At home, we would be watching full coverage of each and every killing, but that's thought to give an unfair advantage to the living tributes. For instance, if I got my hands on the bow and shot someone, my secret would be revealed to all. No, here in the arena, all we see are the same photographs they showed when they televised our training scores. Simple head shots. But now instead of scores they post only district numbers. I take a deep breath as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one on my fingers.  
The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I didn't expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy from District 5. I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there's the boy who ran after my backpack. I've run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Tommy? No, there's the girl from District 10. That's it. The Capitol seal is back with a final musical flourish. Then darkness and the sounds of the forest resume.  
I'm relieved Tommy's alive. I tell myself again that if I get killed, his winning will benefit my mother and Prim the most. But I know there's no shot at him winning and I almost wish him the quick death that he would have found at the Cornucopia. The Careers would have been too busy to torture him at that time, now he's fair game.  
So are you, without that bow, a voice whispers. I push it deep down. I'll get the bow soon.  
Eleven dead, but none from District 12. I try to work out who is left. Five Career Tributes. Foxface. Thresh and Rue. And Tommy.  
Rue, so she made it through the first day after all. I can't help feeling glad. That makes ten of us. The other three I'll figure out tomorrow. But first I need sleep. High above the ground, looking at the synthetic stars, it almost feels like my woods. The only difference is twelve people all wishing for my death instead of Gale and I taking turns keeping watch for game. Slowly, I allow my muscles to relax and my eyes to close. The last thing I think is it's lucky I don't snore.  
~Last Year~  
Walking through town has never really sat right with me. I always take back alleys or the long way to avoid attention or crowds. But getting to the Victors Village without being seen is nearly impossible. Of course a kill is always kept in my game bag, but its not like everyone in Twelve doesn't know what I carry.  
I get to Peeta's and there's no one sitting on the porch ready to invite me in while he bakes or waiting with a few cheese buns. That hasn't happened for at least a month, ever since I finally thanked him for the bread. I knock loudly on the door. No response.  
I know I should just leave the squirrel on his doorstep and leave, but it's weird for him not to be out here and I wonder if something happened. I try the doorknob and it's unlocked.  
"Peeta?" I call as I open the door. I immediately do into the kitchen. He's not here and it looks like he hasn't baked anything today. The signature pots and pans that litter the countertops are nowhere to be seen and the stove isn't covered in different doughs or batters but completely clean, shining like a silver coin.  
I make my way through the house, trying to find his bedroom. The first door I open on the second floor seems the most likely to be it, clothes thrown carelessly on the floor, bed unmade, pictures on the dresser. I smirk at the unexpected untidiness. I'm just about to give up when I hear a moan from the room across the hall.  
I enter the room and am shocked at what awaits me. I had seen his art studio, it was in the basement, filled with bright colors and portraits of his family or candids of the townspeople. But this is something else entirely. The canvases are covered in terrifying scenes. Blood and mutilated bodies and horror are clearly portrayed in each.  
The only piece of furniture in the room is a couch and as I approach it, I see Peeta lying down on it. He's sleeping. I watch him for a moment and can already tell he's not having a peaceful dream. His face is drawn up as if in pain and every once in a while his limbs twitch or he flinches.  
"Peeta?" His head whips to the side violently, fighting off some unknown demon in his dreams. "Peeta wake up!" I shout, shaking him roughly.  
He wakes suddenly and not even my hunting reflexes are a match for him. I'm on the floor under him before I even know he's coherent. My head bangs on the ground and I'm thankful for what little cusion the paint-covered sheet gives me.  
"Katniss?" He asks, confused. Peeta rolls off of me, still staring at me like he doesn't know if he's still dreaming or not. "What are you doing here?"  
I shrug. "It's Thursday."  
His eyes widen. "Oh! You want some bread! I haven't been down to the kitchen yet but I can have a fresh batch out in an hour."  
"No, Peeta, it's okay." I say, halting his movement to stand. "What are these?" I ask, looking pointedly at the paintings unlike the ones I had previously seen.  
Peeta's face morphs into something severe and harsh as he looks at his work. "Nightmares."  
The one word is all he offers in explanation but after what I just witnessed, I guess that's descriptive enough. "Do they happen a lot?"  
"Every night." He mutters something else but I don't catch it.  
The most recent painting is still wet, the brushes unwashed, the paint cans open, his clothes stained with green. "Was that last night?"  
He glances over to it and nods. It's the swamp lands from his games. The scene depicted is an exact copy of what happened on day nine. Crocodiles, mutts. "They came out of the trees," he explains, even though I remember what happened. "Chased Sailor out of her shelter and right into the clutches of the Careers."  
We stood in silence just staring at the painting. It was horribly realistic. The terror plain as day on the girls face as she fled one danger, not knowing what was awaiting her. I wondered that, if she knew the Careers were going to catch her, would she have rather died at the mercy of the mutts?  
"They always do that, you know." Peeta says suddenly.  
"Do what?"  
"Use some natural disaster, some hidden horror, to chase the tributes into a fight. Most die. But there's always a moment, right after the waters or the mutts recede. In that moment, if a tribute can function enough to smell a trap, that's when something amazing usually happens. They earn their right to live through it."  
"She didn't." I state.  
"No, like I said, most die."  
I stare at him, the victor. Sometimes it easy to forget what he's been thru. He's a merchant, so, by popular belief in the Seam, he wouldn't know a hard day's work if it hit him in the face. Yet Peeta's different. He's always been different. But one things evident, he's earned his right to live.  
~Present~  
Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. How long have I been asleep? Four hours? Five? The tip of my nose is icy cold. Snap! Snap! What's going on? This is not the sound of a branch under someone's foot, but the sharp crack of one coming from a tree. Snap! Snap! I judge it to be several hundred yards to my right. Slowly, noiselessly, I turn myself in that direction. For a few minutes, there's nothing but blackness and some scuffling. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can't make out more than that.  
I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire started just at nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of supplies, they couldn't possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when they've probably been combing the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, "Come and get me!"  
And here I am a stone's throw from the biggest idiot in the Games. Strapped in a tree. Not daring to flee since my general location has just been broadcast to any killer who cares. I mean, I know it's cold out here and not everybody has a sleeping bag. But then you grit your teeth and stick it out until dawn!  
I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won't have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person's a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous.  
The sky is still dark, but I can feel the first signs of dawn approaching. I'm beginning to think we - meaning the person whose death I'm now devising and me - we might actually have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They're on her before she can escape. I know it's a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows. Then there's laughter and congratulations from several voices. Someone cries out, "Twelve down and eleven to go!" which gets a round of appreciative hoots.  
So they're fighting in a pack. I'm not really surprised. Often alliances are formed in the early stages of the Games. The strong band together to hunt down the weak then, when the tension becomes too great, begin to turn on one another. I don't have to wonder too hard who has made this alliance. It'll be the remaining Career Tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Two boys and three girls. The ones who lunched together.  
For a moment, I hear them checking the girl for supplies. I can tell by their comments they've found nothing good. I wonder if the victim is Rue but quickly dismiss the thought. She's much too bright to be building a fire like that.  
"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking." I'm almost certain that's the brutish boy from District 2. There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I'm here. How could they? And I'm well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute.  
But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No, not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.  
"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"  
"I'd say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."  
"Unless she isn't dead."  
"She's dead. I stuck her myself."  
"Then where's the cannon?"  
"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done."  
"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice."  
"I said she's dead!"  
An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. One of the boys throws a club at the trunk of my tree in his rage.  
Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I've rolled sideways off the fork and I'm facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it.  
"Go on, then, Ten," says the boy from District 2 to the one whose been arguing the most. "See for yourself."  
I just get a glimpse of him, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there's a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he's limping somewhat. I remember him from training, he's not brutish but not totally inept with his strength. He was smart too, if I remember correctly,  
I can understand alliances, they can be extremely useful. But this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they're the Capitol's lapdogs.  
Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they're saying about him back home now. It's not like an outlier to want to join them let alone be let in.  
The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices.  
"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"  
"Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife."  
I can't help but smirk. This is more like the Career packs we've come to know and hate.  
"Besides, he's our best chance of finding her."  
It takes me a moment to register that the "her" they're referring to is me.  
"Why? You really think she was careless enough to leave behind an obvious trail?"  
"She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke."  
"Wish we knew how she got that eleven."  
"Bet you that love struck victor of her's had something to do with it."  
Someone scoffs. "Everyone knows there's nothing you can do to up your evaluation scores. Whatever she did she did it damn good, so we need to watch our backs. Not ignore the truth because your upset a girl from Twelve outscored you."  
District Ten comes back and the silence themselves.  
"Was she dead?" asks the boy from District 2.  
"No. But she is now," he says. Just then, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?"  
The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, and then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I've heard. They have a tracker, and from the sounds of it, a good one. I need to be more careful with my tread.  
I check the snares and am rewarded with a nice sized rabbit. The only problem: I don't have a knife to skin it with. I curse my stupidity. I just set the traps, not even thinking about the skinning part. I never go into the woods without my hunting knife so it was just habit. This is one of those 'later moments' when I regret the whole not having a weapon.  
I debate about asking Peeta and Haymitch for a knife, but think better of it. I could use this predicament to show the audience how resourceful I am, maybe earn some sponsors on my skills and not the story. I think back to the metal box that the sponsor gifts came in. If there was someway to rip off a big enough piece it could become a shank of some sort. I pull out the box and start searching the ground for the perfect rock. When I find one that would work, I use the rock to break the box. Then proceed to skin the rabbit the best I can with the make-do knife.  
After it's skinned, it took triple the amount of time it usually takes me to prepare a coney, I use the dying embers of the fire that girl made last night to cook it. It's a risk, staying in one place so long, but I can't bring myself to chance raw rabbit. I eat a few pieces along with the rest of the bread and about half of what's left of the water. I need to find some more soon.  
I start to set off in the opposite direction of the Careers when I think better of it. I need a weapon, I need that bow. Plus, you can't track something that's tracking you. I feel my face draw up into a smile. Peeta probably won't like it, but he's not here right now.  
I turn and trace my steps back to my tree. It doesn't take me long to find the Career's tracks, they're cocky, not careful in their steps: sloppy. I easily am able to follow their path, noticing tendencies and patterns to the destructive wake they leave behind them. Knife marks marring the trees, heavy footprints and long scuffs covering the forest floor, and small plants that have been cut away to ease their passage. They're definitely not worried about being tracked. I'm sure they think that even if they were, no one would be stupid enough attack. I'll need a plan.  
About mid afternoon, I find a pond. I'm beyond relived as my own water had just about been spent throughout the day. I fill the water bottle up with the lake water and then use one of the iodine tabs to purify it.  
By the time the anthem plays, I feel remarkably better. There's only one face tonight. The girl from 8 that the Careers killed. I climb a tree in the minimal light, not really comforted by the fact that towards the end of the day, the Career's tracks seemed increasingly fresher. I rest my hand on the makeshift knife at my waste, if they were to find me, I'd be screwed. With those pleasant thoughts, I snuggle down in my sleeping bag, hanging on to my water bottle for dear life, which, of course, it is.  
I wake the next morning with the sun. For a solid five minutes I stay still in my bag, listening for anyone close enough to hear me as well. When I decide I'm relatively alone, I gather my things and climb down the tree, eating the last of my rabbit meat from the previous day. I'll need to get that bow tonight. I'm almost out of food and I don't want to rely on the possibility of a meal from Peeta and Haymitch.  
I haven't been walking for more than twenty minutes when I start to smell smoke. Off in the distance a huge wall of smoke rose above the trees. It was far enough away that I didn't have to worry for several miles, and I doubted the Gamemakers wanted to burn this much of their precious arena. The fire was started for a reason, most likely to drive someone into the hands of the Careers, and once that happened, it would extinguish itself.  
I continued on the Career's path and knew I was closing in on them. The tracks grew fresher and fresher until I was reluctant to keep up my pace. I needed to come up with a plan, not stumble into them blindly. Somehow I will need to distract the pack as I grab the bow. This will probably require me killing the one who has the said weapon and that will require a weapon and before this I will need something to distract them with, which I also don't have. Great.  
A loud 'whoop' fills the air, followed by excited cheers and a battle cry. The Careers have found their next victim.  
I sprint after the noises but skid to a stop as the forest ends. A river and a small pond lie before me; the Career's disappearing on the other side. The wall of smoke has vanished, although I can still smell it in the air. The fire did its purpose. The other side of the pond is burnt and charred, the flames probably forced its target into the water to avoid getting burnt. All too easy a prey for the approaching Careers. I hurry across the rocks, making as little splashing as possible as I chase after them, hoping they'll be too busy with the hunt to hear it.  
I catch sight of their coats and slow to a stalk. I crouch down as I creep closer. The Careers stand at the bottom of a tree, staring up at a small tribute. From my hiding place I can't make out the conversation of the treed tribute so I risk coming even closer.  
"Whatcha gonna do now, little girl?" The tallest one, Cato, taunts.  
The girl tries to move down the branch, her eye fixed on the tree to her left. She looks like she's actually going to jump into the other tree when Clove throws a knife. I hold my breath as I watch it sail just past her ear. She screams and almost falls, grabbing onto the limb and hurrying back to the trunk for the little protection it offers. The trees are brittle, black with char resulting from fire. All the foliage that might have kept her concealed is gone. The little that still resides on the tree is too far up for even the girl to reach; the branches would be to thin even if most of their integrity wasn't destroyed by the fire.  
The Careers laugh. I can feel the girl trembling for my place, fifty yards away.  
"Nice try, Eleven!" Clove shouts. "I'm sure if you try again you'll get it."  
Eleven. It must be Rue, the small girl who said she could climb trees. Now the Gamemakers have robbed her of that small skill as well. All I can think of is Prim, alone, scared, shaking in a tree as the coonhounds jeer at her.  
I hear Peeta's voice in my head again. The one that tells me something's not a good idea. I glance up at the sky, the habit I've taken to when I think about either of my mentors, and bite my lip, hoping Peeta understands the apology I'm projecting. It's a hopeless case with no outcome that can be favorable. Either I die, which I for one, don't find all that appealing, or I come out of this with a twelve-year-old ally, which Peeta specifically warned me against. No, no good is going to come of this. But I can't just walk away.  
I am going to save her.


	9. The Victor's Plight

Peeta:  
~Present~  
I knew it would be hard, I truly did. Before Prim's name was even called I knew it wouldn't be easy, training two kids to go into the hell I had just left. But nothing could have prepared me for actually standing here and watching my tribute die.  
It's no wonder Haymitch had wanted nothing to do with me last year until I proved I had even the slightest chance. A part of us goes in with each of the kids we send into the games, and a part of us is going to die with each of them. Maybe I didn't do it right, didn't separate myself from Tommy enough, but from the look on Haymitch's face, there was nothing I could have done to prevent feeling like this.  
It's about nine and the Gamemakers have already started the fun. A fire in the southernmost part of the arena is blazing with its artificially-elevated temperatures and unpredictable targeting. After quickly checking to make sure Katniss was far enough away from the fire, Haymitch and I unknowingly settled in to watch Tommy make his final mistakes. So far, he'd been doing fine, staying away from everyone, collecting a few berries, never straying too far from a water supply, but his luck was short lived.  
Following a small creek, he wandered into Thresh's territory. The minute he stepped into the tall grasses he was a goner, anyone who understood the concept that ruled the games could smell the stupidity of that move. Whether Haymitch and I had failed to educate him or he didn't see Thresh claim the brush, Tommy had just seen his last sunrise.  
It's over quick. He triggers a trap and Thresh doesn't hesitate, any intruder is seen first and foremost as a threat. The kill shot is a thrown machete. Unlike the Careers, Thresh just wants this to be over like any other tribute. Haymitch grabs a drink and I allow it. He gave me his word and I trust him not to drink beyond that line. Frankly, I want one myself.  
The normal cries of excitement and disappointment come from the sponsors, but Haymitch and I are quiet for a few minutes. A moment of silence for a boy who was silenced too soon. "What do we do now, Haymitch?"  
He looks over at me with the wisdom many don't ever get to see and says, "We get your girl home."  
I nod, forcing back the tears that have toyed with falling for the past five minutes. Haymitch lays a hand on my shoulder and tells me that he'll be back soon. I watch him head to one of the back rooms with Peacekeepers stationed in front of the door. They barely acknowledge him but allow him to pass. It must be where they go to prepare the bodies.  
Trying to get the image of the Fieldsworths out of my mind, I pick up Katniss's tablet and watch her track through the woods. It's calming, watching her move, think, and act. Those three things are what keep you alive in the arena. I was less than thrilled when I realized she planned on tracking the Career Pact, but if I remove my protective blindness, I can see that it is a smart idea. It also gives the audience reason to anticipate something, which means the Gamemakers will most likely leave her alone.  
I'm pulled from my tablet when a chorus of cheers comes from the gallery. I look up at the big screens and see the Careers hone in on their next victim. Rue, the small girl from Eleven. She's trapped in a tree on the edge of the burned landscape. She was the one the Gamemakers targeted with the fire.  
Suddenly Katniss's pace quickens and dread fills me. She would have heard Rue's cries too. Instead of sitting back and waiting for the Careers to be done, she just had to join the fray.  
"Walk away, Katniss. Walk away," I whisper as she inches closer to inspect the situation, hoping against hope rather than actually believing she will.  
She looks up at the sky and the cameras zoom in on her face. She bites her lip in a rare look of apology and I know what she's decided.  
"No!" I yell in frustration, throwing the tablet onto the couch. Why couldn't she just do as I told her?  
"It seems that our Girl on Fire isn't going to hang back." Claudius Temple's voice cuts into the feed.  
"Is she actually going to try to save her?"  
"I think she is, Ceaser, I think she is."  
"This is why she's my favorite, Claudius. Look at that. First her sister Prim and now little Rue."  
"Well, you do love an underdog, Ceaser."  
The doors Haymitch had disappeared into opened and he reentered the room.  
"Haymitch," a lady with dark skin and shot black hair calls from a short distance away.  
"Seeder," Haymitch holds up his hand, anger very evident in his body language. "Usually you wait at least a few hours before approaching the district your tribute just killed."  
"It's not Tommy I'm here about," she begins but I cut in.  
"Haymitch," I call, the panic I'm so desperately trying to get control of bleeding into my voice. "It's Katniss."  
With a few long strides he's up the stairs, Seeder hesitating at the bottom. Haymitch grabs my tablet and quickly looks in between it and the large screens covering the action. It takes him seconds to figure out what's happening.  
"What the hell is she doing?" He whirls around in me. "You said she was smart, what is she planning on doing? She doesn't even have a weapon! And even if she does manage to save the girl, she walks out of this with a twelve year old ally. I thought you warned her against this!"  
"I did! I don't understand why she's—" I stop myself as I suddenly realize what is happening.  
"We need to somehow get her to walk away," Haymitch demands. "Do you have another one of your stupid bread codes for 'Stop' like you did for 'Thank You?'"  
I ignore his rude comment, choosing instead to stay on the topic. "She's not walking away. There's not a chance in hell."  
"Why not?"  
"Prim." I state. "She looks at Rue and she sees Prim."  
Haymitch holds my stare for a moment before flipping the small table near his chair. "Dammit, boy!"  
"Haymitch, if I may," Seeder gestures towards the stairs of our small platform.  
"Come," he says simply.  
"It seems we may become allies for the first time in many years, Haymitch."  
"You believe they can survive this?" Haymitch asks. "That we can make a plan before they kill both of them?"  
"They've had Rue's scent for hours, we know our tribute. We knew she would climb a tree. Chaff and I already have a plan."  
As if summoned by the mention of his name, a large man made his way onto our platform, not stopping to ask for permission like Seeder did. "Haymitch," the man, Chaff, Peeta presumed, reaches to shake his mentor's hand in greeting. "I'm sorry about your boy."  
"Thank you." Haymitch seemed much more at ease with this victor. "Now, what is this brilliant plan of yours?"  
"They're called Tracker Jackers. Genetically modified yellow jackets."  
"And how will they help?" I ask and a look of understanding crosses Haymitch's face.  
"We send them to Rue and she drops them on the Careers."  
"Rue has been up in that tree for nearly an hour, why haven't you sent them yet."  
Seeder and Chaff share a look. "They are near the second highest price bracket."  
"You can't afford them," I say.  
"But Katniss can."  
I pull up her stats, she has enough to probably buy the nest three times over, but prices rise everyday and I am reluctant to buy anything she doesn't absolutely need. I look back at her crouched behind the treeline, we don't have a lot of time before she acts on whatever plan she is trying to piece together in her head. "This is the best plan?"  
"It's the only plan, kid," Chaff replies gruffly.  
"It's a good plan," Haymitch agrees. "We just need to make sure Katniss is far enough away from the tree so she doesn't get stung."  
"Great, so, we have her follow something, a parachute," I suggest.  
"Rue is burned, second degree at least. She has enough in her account to buy some burn cream."  
"So, we send Katniss the cream and Rue the nest. While Katniss is opening the cream, hopefully Rue will have enough time to remove and drop the nest onto the careers."  
"The bees will swarm, the Careers run, taking the Tracker Jackers away from the tree. Giving Katniss enough time to grab Rue and take off in the opposite direction."  
They all look at each other, checking to see if anyone has a problem with their plot. When no one comes forward Haymitch nods. "Okay. Seeder, Chaff, grab your pads, we'll work from our station." They nod, going to grab everything they need. "Peeta, get the nest ready."  
I go into the Gift Bank and pull up the Tracker Jackers. At the bottom of every item over the basic level of food, there's a list of every time it has been used. After we do this, we will be the first to ever buy this gift. Seeing its price it is really no surprise.  
The District Eleven Mentors return and pull up Rue's medicine. Seeder and I make eye contact for a moment before silently agreeing to switch tablets. We may be on the same team, working together to save both their lives, but neither of us truly trusted the other with our tribute's package. If that nest didn't get exactly where it was supposed to go, Rue could die. If the parachute didn't get Katniss far enough away from the tree, Katniss could get seriously hurt and be vulnerable for days while she recovers.  
"Launch the parachutes in three, two, one," Haymitch directs. "Now."  
Sedeer and I hit the transfer buttons and we hold our breath as we watch the screen for them to appear in the arena. Our plan was underway.  
Katniss:  
~Earlier this Year~  
The spring is setting in, and that means hunting is picking back up. The winter hadn't been too harsh, but hunting had been tight enough to prevent trade. That had meant no weekly visits to the Victor's Village. It had been nearly a month since my last plausible excuse to see Peeta, not that I had to answer to anyone except myself on this topic. As Gale and I check the traps this morning, I cannot stop myself from growing more and more excited each time we pick up kill. We almost have enough. We walk the lines for another mile.  
"Katniss, look," Gale, ever the hunter, whispers just loud enough for me to hear. He crouches down, reaching under a bush.  
I hurry to look over his shoulder. Strawberries, some even ripe enough to pick. Gale pops one in his mouth and I hit his shoulder, "Don't eat them, we can sell those."  
Gale rolls his eyes. "There's plenty. Here," he holds one out for me. "Have one."  
I debate it, weighing the cost verses pleasure. Finally, I give in. What's one berry anyway? I grab the small fruit from him, ignoring the smug grin on his face. Instead, I close my eyes and savor the burst of fresh flavor.  
"Do you have something clean?" Gale asks, starting to pick the berries.  
"Yeah, one second." I grab out a small pack recently washed by Hazel.  
"Today's haul is just what we needed. Extra meat to the Hob and these berries always pass for a small fortune from your townie friend."  
"Madge isn't like the rest," I defend before realizing what he said. He means to go to the Hob to trade the surplus kill together. The disappointment of possibly not seeing Peeta after all my excitement puts me down hard. Harder than I'd like, and that makes me mad at Gale for making me feel it, and myself for allowing it.  
"Yeah, I know," Gale mumbles, the reoccurring argument sounding flat. We walk back to the fence with our game.  
"Gale," I say suddenly, just before I know the fence will come into view.  
"Hmm?" he doesn't realize I stop, so I say his name again. "What?"  
"Its Saturday, and the first time since fall we have a large enough load that we can afford to give up a little meat."  
"Yeah, that's why I figured we can celebrate it in the Hob."  
He starts to move again, and I start to grasp at straws. "Gale, I don't want to go to the Hob." I say, my finesse under pressure showing again.  
"But Katniss-"  
"No, Gale. I haven't . . ." I stop myself, knowing the Peeta subject is still a little touchy.  
"You haven't what, Katniss? Haven't seen Breadboy in a week?" he sneers.  
"I told you not to call him that," I snap.  
"No, you know what?" he slips off his game bag and throws out a few squirrels and a bird. "Take all the excess, I'll take the berries to the Mayor's house myself."  
"Gale," I say, exasperated at his childish end to our argument. "Gale!" I call as he walks away, for real this time.  
. . .  
It takes me a few minutes to get a hold of myself after my fight with Gale, but soon I find myself standing on a familiar front porch. I don't hesitate to ring the doorbell like I used to, I know I'm welcome here. For a moment, I puzzle over the idea that I'd probably still be welcome after a fight, Peeta doesn't seem like the kind to walk away.  
"Katniss," Peeta smiles as he opens that door. "It's been a while." He stands aside, inviting me in.  
"Peeta," I nod. I take in the smell of bread and paint. At first, I had found the sterile fumes of the paint that always resided in Peeta's house to be annoying and off-putting, but it appears to have grown on me in my absence. I notice the small amounts of flour in the creases of his face and have to stop my smile. "Been baking already?"  
It was earlier than my usual time that I came to trade last fall, but after my argument with Gale, I didn't want to wait.  
"Well, you know me." Peeta shrugs with a good-natured grin. "Haymitch is actually joining me for dinner so I was making his favorite."  
"Haymitch has a favorite bread?" I ask, disbelievingly.  
Peeta laughs and we walk into the kitchen. "I think, if given the opportunity, everyone can come to have a favorite." Peeta reaches into his bread box, which is actually quite large, and pulles out a bag. "Isn't that right, Katniss?" he mischievously holds up a roll and it takes me barely a moment to recognize it. It's a cheese bun.  
My eyes go wide, "how did you know?" I ask, taking the offered bread and digging into it immediately.  
"I'm a baker at heart, Katniss. It's my job to know what people enjoy and what they don't."  
"I thought you were a painter at heart?" I say, skeptically.  
He shrugs again. "Can't I be both?"  
I make a nonchalant sound, focusing more of my attention on the creation currently at hand.  
"Speaking of painting, I have something to show you," he says cryptically before walking out of the room without ceremony.  
I quickly catch up to him before he reaches the top of the stairs. We walk past many of the rooms I have already been in and stop by his bedroom door.  
"I've been working on this all winter, so even if it looks nothing like it, please pretend for my pride's sake."  
Curious, I raise an eyebrow. What could have taken an entire season to paint?  
He pushes open the door. We walk in and I suddenly realize exactly what took him so long. The walls of his room are completely covered in a mural of the forest. I nearly stumble towards a wall, completely hypnotized by likeliness.  
"Does it look similar?" Peeta asks, hesitantly.  
His voice pulls me out of my reverie and I look back to him. "Peeta, it's amazing."  
"I've never been, but the Capital has pictures that I used to get a feel for the trees."  
He captured everything, down to the way the sunlight changes as it filters thru the leaves. Peeta comes up beside me and I feel his fingers lightly intertwine with mine. My first instinct is to yank my hand back, but then I notice that his touch is actually nice, not making my skin crawl with beetles or making my hand clammy like Gale's did that time he tried it. His hold seems to make me warm on the inside, like a fresh roll on his cooling racks.  
"My birthday is next week," I blurt out. "I'll be sixteen."  
Peeta nods, "Mine was right before Christmas."  
We go quiet again, my eyes still exploring new corners of the walls.  
"What's your favorite color?"  
"Why?" I scrunch my nose at the question.  
"Well, that's the kind of things friends know about each other," he answers smartly.  
"Are we friends, Peeta?" I ask, thinking about how I felt lonely over the winter, even with Gale and Prim. And how his hand is still holding mine.  
"I consider you a friend, Katniss."  
I think about the way he used a romantic plot with me as the fixture to get home. I think about what Rye and Prim said to get me to visit. I think of every one of our trades that should have taken a few minutes and that usually last a few hours. Instead of responding to his statement, I merely remove my hand from his and say, "Green."  
~Present~  
As I watch the Career pack continue to taunt Rue, I study their dynamics. Obviously, Cato is the leader, but the rest of them are just as blood thirsty as him. After a few failed attempts at trying to climb the tree after the girl, they seem to give up, most of them sitting down and eating the food their mentors' must have sent them beforehand. I keep trying to get Rue's attention but so far that hasn't worked out. About an hour into my watch, the best thing I have come up with is to cause a distraction. If I could somehow get to Glimmer, I might be able to take out a couple with the bow, but not all of them. I could try to wait for night to fall, but it seemed hours away. Maybe I could throw rocks at them?  
As I'm debating my newest plan, I hear the telltale sounds of a parachute. Glancing up at the sky, I see the silver arch. I wonder what they could be giving me? Or maybe this is there way of sending me away. I hate to disappoint them, but I'm not going anywhere until I get Rue out.  
The parachute looks like it's going to overshoot me about a hundred feet so I slowly back away from my position to receive it. As the parachute closes in, I start to hear the noise pick up again. More jeers. I clench my fists as the gift seems to take a lifetime to reach me. Finally, it falls into my hands. I quickly unscrew the lid, shocked at the small vile. What this size could possible help me?  
I find a thick gel inside. Dipping my finger into the substance, I can tell it's medical related. Burn cream maybe. The only problem is that I didn't get burned in the fire.  
My inquiry into my girl is halted when I hear the Careers break out in screams. I quickly screw back on the lid and tie the still attached parachute to the arm of my backpack. I take off running back to my viewpoint, not knowing what to expect.  
It's mayhem. The Careers are under a full-scale tracker jacker attack. Cato and a few others have the sense to drop everything and bolt. I can hear cries of "To the lake! To the lake!" and know they hope to evade the wasps by taking to the water. It must be close if they think they can outdistance the furious insects. I only remember the small creek I crossed to get here.  
Glimmer and another girl, the one from District 4, are not so lucky. They receive multiple stings before they're even out of my view. Glimmer appears to go completely mad, shrieking and trying to bat the wasps off with her bow, which is pointless. She calls to the others for help but, of course, no one returns. The girl from District 4 staggers out of sight, although I wouldn't bet on her making it to the lake. I watch Glimmer fall, twitch hysterically around on the ground for a few minutes, and then go still.  
The nest is nothing but an empty shell. The wasps have vanished in pursuit of the others. I don't think they'll return, but I don't want to risk it. I run to the base of the tree, keeping low to the ground in case the lake is close enough for them to see me.  
"Rue!" I call up quietly to the small form holding to the tree for dear life. "Rue, we need to go," I plead, glancing in the direction the Careers had run off in.  
"Katniss?" a shaky voice all but whispers from fatigue. She must have gotten stung before she threw the nest down. I see a parachute stuck in the tree above her. Did someone send her the nest? Was that legal?  
"Rue, you need to climb down," I urge.  
"I can't," she cries as she makes it down about two branches. "It hurts, Katniss."  
I quickly assess the tree. The branches are to brittle for me to climb up. "Rue, please. They're going to come back. We need to leave."  
"I can't, Katniss."  
"You can," I stress. "Please, Rue. Try."  
She finally nods. As she slowly moves down the tree, I can hear her sniffles. I bite my tongue to keep from rushing her as I come to the conclusion that the wounds are not from the wasps. I keep my eyes on Rue; I don't want to think about what Glimmer must look like now. Her body disfigured. Her swollen fingers stiffening around the bow.  
The bow! I haven't heard the cannons fire yet, so perhaps Glimmer is in some sort of coma, her heart still struggling against the wasp venom. But once it stops and the cannon signals her death, a hovercraft will move in and retrieve her body, taking the only bow and sheath of arrows I've seen out of the Games for good. And I refuse to let them slip through my fingers again!  
I turn to find Glimmer just as the cannon fires. The tracker jackers have vanished. This girl, so breathtakingly beautiful in her golden dress the night of the interviews, is unrecognizable. Her features eradicated, her limbs three times their normal size. The stinger lumps have begun to explode, spewing putrid green liquid around her. I have to break several of what used to be her fingers with a stone to free the bow. The sheath of arrows is pinned under her back. I try to roll over her body by pulling on one arm, but the flesh disintegrates in my hands and I fall back on the ground.  
I squeeze my eyes tight and try to breathe through my mouth, ordering myself not to become sick. I need the arrows, I tell myself. Breakfast must stay down, it might be days before I can hunt again. A second cannon fires and I'm guessing the girl from District 4 has just died. I hear the birds fall silent and then one give the warning call, which means a hovercraft is about to appear. Confused, I think it's for Glimmer, although this doesn't quite make sense because I'm still in the picture, still fighting for the arrows. In the middle of the sky, I spot the hovercraft. Despite the smell, I throw myself over Glimmer's body as if to protect it but then I see the girl from District 4 being lifted into the air and vanishing.  
"Do this!" I command myself. Clenching my jaw, I dig my hands under Glimmer's body, get a hold on what must be her rib cage, and force her onto her stomach. I can't help it, I'm hyperventilating now, the whole thing is so nightmarish. This mass of bile-inducing lumps used to be a person. I tug on the silver sheath of arrows, but it's caught on something, her shoulder blade, something, and finally yank it free. I've just encircled the sheath with my arms when I hear the footsteps, several pairs, coming through the underbrush, and I realize the Careers have come back. They've come back to kill me or get their weapons or both.  
Luckily, Rue is low enough for me to reach up and help her down to the ground. She wobbles on her legs and falls into my side. She latches on to me like a lifeline and I try to find remind myself she's just a child, but the footsteps are coming closer. I'm not strong enough to carry her far, but I can at least get us away from the Careers. I sprint, ignoring the cry of pain from her as I shift her in my arms. Better hurt than dead. When we've gone for nearly two minutes, my strength has all but left me. Between Rue and the supplies, my arms threaten to give out.  
I find a soft bed of ivy with minimal covering provided by a few fallen trees. It's not ideal, but it will have to do. Setting Rue down roughly, I force both our heads down far enough to be covered by the log. Rue whimpers and I don't know if my quiet shushing is to provide comfort or to actually shut her up. I pull her head into my chest, gently stroking her head, as I count to a thousand. When no voices or sounds follow, I figure they must not have found our trail. I relax.  
"Rue, what happened?" I ask as I notice her bloodied leg. Definitely not from the Tracker Jackers.  
"The fire," her small voice answers. Rue was burned in the fire? The burn cream!  
Now it all makes sense. The nest was probably a very expensive item, and no matter her strategy, there are not many sponsors looking for twelve-year-olds. The burn cream was sent to me to keep me away from the wasps.  
"Here, drink. You must be thirsty." I hand her my water pouch which she takes graciously. When she's done, I take it and pour it over her burn to clean it. She cries out in surprise and pain. "I'm sorry," I say immediately. "It's supposed to hurt less when it's a surprise."  
There are more tears running down her face and my chest aches for the small girl. I pull out the burn cream and go to put it on. Rue flinches away from me. "Don't worry, this will make it feel better, I promise."  
She nods, but her face scrunches as she braces herself. I apply the cream liberally and am relieved when I see her body sag. It must be doing its job. "That feels good," she whispers.  
I smile at her. "I'm glad." I prop up my quiver for easy access, just in case we are not as alone as I suppose we are.  
"Are you hungry?" I ask, handing her the water back.  
She hesitates but eventually nods. I pull out the remainder of my food and hand her the meat. I was supposed to go hunting today, but I guess that's not going to happen. It doesn't matter much, I've gone days without eating before, today won't be that difficult. We can start looking for food tomorrow.  
"Aren't you going to have some?" she asks as she unknowingly finishes off the last of it.  
I shake my head, smiling sadly.  
She frowns, "Why not?"  
I reach out and tuck on of her curls out of her face. "I ate this morning."  
Her eyes go wide when she realizes. "Oh my! I'm so sorry, Katniss. I've never—"  
"Rue, it's alright. Seriously. It is. When was the last time you ate? I know it was before my last meal."  
Rue looks down at her leg. "Couldn't your mentors send you some food? I mean, they helped me already."  
"Well that's because the Career's aren't the only ones who can make allies."  
She smiles shyly at me.  
I turn my face upwards and raise an eyebrow at the invisible cameras. "I'm sure we can convince Peeta to send us some bread. He has an even harder time saying no to little girls than he does to me. You should see him spoil Prim," I tease, looking back to Rue.  
Rue giggles. "Is all that true? You and him?"  
"What do you think?" I try to deflect the question.  
Her response is interrupted by the parachute landing on the log above us. I reach up and grab it, waggling my eyebrows at Rue. "I told you he can't resist."  
I open the box to see a similar set as last time: water, bread and a few slices of ham. The bread was sliced into four pieces, probably to be used as a sandwich for the meat. I split the food up, leaving a portion for later. That's when I catch the smell of the bread. Not believing it, I grab a slice and put it to my nose. As I confirm my suspicions, I laugh, part amused and part angry.  
"Peeta Mellark," I shake my head, my jaw forming an underbite unconsciously.  
"What?" Rue asks, suddenly worried something had happened. "Is something wrong with the bread?"  
Shaking off my irritation, I reassure Rue. "Nothing's wrong with the bread, it's just Sourdough."  
"Why is the dough sour?"  
"That's the real question, isn't it, Rue?" I busy myself with putting the food into the pack, leaving out a slice of meat for myself. It is more than I was planning on having tonight, I try to reason. "Why anyone would want to buy bread that tastes like mold is beyond me."  
"You don't like it?" I shake my head. Rue frowns down at the bread in her hands. "I like it."  
"So does Peeta. It's one of his favorites."  
"Why did he send it? If he knew you don't like it?"  
I smile in spite of myself, starting to be truly amazed at the amount Peeta can say in bread. "Because he's angry with me."  
"For helping me?"  
"No, Rue," I say seriously. "He's just worried about me, that's all."  
"So it is true. What they say?"  
I wrap my arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, Rue. It's true."  
I stare up at the sky that night, thinking about Peeta. I can almost see his kitchen, always either a complete mess or a pristine clean. I can imagine the way he'd smile as I knocked on the door. The way he smelt. The way he kissed my head on our last morning. I remember the way he stood behind me in the elevator, his breath on my neck. The safe feeling I get when he'd hold me. I need that right now, as I provide that safety to a child.  
I look down at Rue. Peeta has every right to be angry with me. I disobeyed him, or at least went against one of the first warnings he had given me. I need a way to make it up to him, to show him I'm still fighting. I go back over all his warnings in my head until I discover my next plan of action. I have to cut off the pack. We were going to have to get rid of their supplies, and soon.


	10. A Fox Near A Wolf's Pack

Katniss:  
~Present~  
I'm too distracted by my latest idea about the Careers and their supplies to think of much else. Somehow Rue and I must find a way to destroy their food. I'm pretty sure feeding themselves will be a tremendous struggle. Traditionally, the Career tributes' strategy is to get ahold of all the food early on and work from there. The years when they have not protected it well, those are usually the years that tributes from other districts have won. That the Careers have been better fed growing up is actually to their disadvantage, because they don't know how to be hungry. Not the way Rue and I do.  
But I'm too exhausted to begin any detailed plan tonight. My wounds recovering, my mind still a bit foggy from the venom, and the warmth of Rue at my side, her head cradled on my shoulder, have given me a sense of security. I realize, for the first time, how very lonely I've been in the arena. How comforting the presence of another human being can be. Without my permission, my mind begins to drift back to my last night before the games.  
I lean my head back against the log, looking at the artificial night sky and remember the way Peeta had come to check in on me. No matter how irritated I was about the sourdough bread, the idea of putting myself in danger and him being mad about it, gives me comfort. In a way, it feels like he's checking up on me after a fight or coming into my room to make sure I'm feeling okay. I close my eyes and fight the urge to smile, thinking of his loud but careful steps and his gentle amble.  
I give in to my drowsiness, resolving that tomorrow the tables will turn. Tomorrow, it's the Careers who will have to watch their backs.  
The anthem begins and Rue watches the sky for the pictures that will appear towards the end.  
"The girls from Districts One and Four are dead. There's ten of us left," I say confidently, not paying the anthem any heed until I hear Rue gasp. Looking up towards the sky, I see Tommy's face.  
"Who do you think killed him?" Rue asks quietly, after we had been sitting there for a while.  
I shake my head, staring into the darkness with a blank expression. The emotions I'm feeling over Tommy's death don't belong to the Capital. They don't get to have them. "It wasn't the Careers. I have been trailing them all day. I would have found him like I did you."  
"I hope it was Thresh."  
Shocked, I look down at her. "What?"  
If it is possible, Rue looks even smaller than usual. "Before the Games started, Thresh didn't like it when the Careers would joke about killing us. When they trapped me earlier, they were saying things they were going to do before they let me die. If Thresh saw that, he'd stop them. If Thresh killed Tommy, it wouldn't have been too bad."  
I carefully put my arm around her. There is something so wrong about discussing the ideal killer with a twelve-year-old. "He sounds like Peeta."  
Rue buries her head in my chest, but not before nodding. I hold her tighter and contemplate just how much of a compliment that sentence is becoming for me. Tommy is dead, there's no changing that, but he could have been killed by someone like Peeta, and in a strange messed up way, I could be thankful for that.  
"And they're so strong," Rue whispers, thinking about the Careers.  
"We're strong, too," I say. "Just in a different way."  
"You are. You can shoot," she says. "What can I do?"  
"You can feed yourself. Can they?" I ask.  
"They don't need to. They have all those supplies," Rue says.  
"Say they didn't. Say the supplies were gone. How long would they last?" I say. "I mean, it's the Hunger Games, right?"  
"But, Katniss, they're not hungry," says Rue.  
"No, they're not. That's the problem," I agree. And for the first time, share my plan with both Rue and the country. A plan that isn't motivated by the need for flight and evasion. An offensive plan. "I think we're going to have to fix that, Rue."  
The next morning, at Rue's suggestion, we lay out all our food to plan ahead. She's seen most of mine, but I add the last couple of crackers and beef strips to the pile. She's gathered quite a collection of roots, nuts, greens, and even some berries.  
I roll an unfamiliar berry in my fingers. "You sure this is safe?"  
"Oh, yes, we have them back home. I've been eating them for days," she says, popping a handful in her mouth. I tentatively bite into one, and it's as good as our blackberries. Taking Rue on as an ally seems a better choice all the time. We divide up our food supplies, so in case we're separated, we'll both be set for a few days. Apart from the food, Rue has a small water skin, a homemade slingshot, and an extra pair of socks. She also has a sharp shard of rock she uses as a knife. "I know it's not much," she says as if embarrassed, "but I had to get away from the Cornucopia fast."  
"You did just right," I say. "What's in your hands?"  
"Breakfast," says Rue. She holds them out revealing two big eggs. Her wound must be feeling better, if she was able to go find eggs.  
"What kind are those?" I ask.  
"Not sure. There's a marshy area over that way. Some kind of waterbird," she says.  
It'd be nice to cook them, but neither of us wants to risk a fire. My guess is the tribute who died today was a victim of the Careers, which means they've recovered enough to be back in the Games. We each suck out the insides of an egg and some berries. It's not a great breakfast, but it works. I can hunt on the way back.  
"Can you hold the fort for a few hours?"  
"What?" Rue asks, slightly panicked.  
"It's okay, Rue. I just want to scope out the Career's food pile before they fully recover from the stings. You said they should be immobile for at least another day?"  
Rue nods. "I know they were stung more than once, they will need some time to get over them. But why can't I come?"  
I get up and start to gather my supplies. "You're still hurt, Rue. You need to rest."  
"Katniss, even if you could get to the food, how would you get rid of it?"  
"Don't worry, I'll think of something. Destroying things is much easier than making them."  
This seems to pacify her and she agrees sullenly.  
I trace back to the tree and small creek where I had found Rue the day before, and then follow the current downstream until I reach a large lake. They have set up their camp beside the lake with their supply stash about thirty yards away. There is a pocket of tents with weapons spread around them, and I assume that is where the Careers are recovering.  
A boy about my age stands guard over both the stock pile and the sleeping tributes. If I remember correctly he is from District Three. He carries a spear, but does not seem too deadly. I study the surrounding area more. Something doesn't seem right. All the food was just left out in the open with only one guard, and not a particularly skilled one at that.  
Most of the supplies, held in crates, burlap sacks, and plastic bins, are piled neatly in a pyramid in what seems a questionable distance from the camp. Others are sprinkled around the perimeter of the pyramid, almost mimicking the layout of supplies around the Cornucopia at the onset of the Games. A canopy of netting that, aside from discouraging birds, seems to be useless shelters the pyramid itself.  
The whole setup is completely perplexing. The distance, the netting, and the presence of the boy from District 3. One thing's for sure, destroying those supplies is not going to be as simple as it looks. Some other factor is at play here, and I'd better stay put until I figure out what it is. My guess is the pyramid is booby-trapped in some manner. I think of concealed pits, descending nets, a thread that when broken sends a poisonous dart into your heart. Really, the possibilities are endless.  
I stay put for a half an hour or so, trying to figure out what to do about the supplies. The one advantage I have with the bow and arrow is distance. I could send a flaming arrow into the pyramid easily enough - I'm a good enough shot to get it through those openings in the net - but there's no guarantee it would catch. More likely it'd just burn itself out and then what? I'd have achieved nothing and given them far too much information about myself. That I was here and that I can use the bow and arrow with accuracy.  
There's no alternative. I'm going to have to get in closer and see if I can't discover what exactly protects the supplies. In fact, I'm just about to reveal myself when a movement catches my eye. Several hundred yards to my right, I see someone emerge from the woods. For a second, I think it's Rue, but then I recognize Foxface - she's the one we couldn't remember this morning - creeping out onto the plain. When she decides it's safe, she runs for the pyramid, with quick, small steps. Just before she reaches the circle of supplies that have been littered around the pyramid, she stops, searches the ground, and carefully places her feet on a spot. Then she begins to approach the pyramid with strange little hops, sometimes landing on one foot, teetering slightly, sometimes risking a few steps. At one point, she launches up in the air, over a small barrel and lands poised on her tiptoes. But she overshot slightly, and her momentum throws her forward. I hear her give a sharp squeal as her hands hit the ground, but nothing happens. In a moment, she's regained her feet and continues until she has reached the bulk of the supplies.  
So, I'm right about the booby trap, but it's clearly more complex than I had imagined. I was right about the girl, too. How wily is she to have discovered this path into the food and to be able to replicate it so neatly? Wily is dangerous. She starts to fill her pack, and I hurry to think faster.  
Foxface has confirmed what I'd already guessed. But what sort of trap have they laid that requires such dexterity? Has so many trigger points? Why did she squeal so as her hands made contact with the earth? You'd have thought, and slowly it begins to dawn on me, you'd have thought the very ground was going to explode.  
"It's mined," I whisper.  
Foxface is taking a few items from a variety of containers, crackers from a crate, a handful of apples from a burlap sack that hangs suspended from a rope off the side of a bin. But only a handful from each, not enough to tip off that the food is missing. Not enough to cause suspicion. I see that she's almost finished and with a thought to Peeta, a chilling idea appears in my head. I could kill two birds with one stone, be that much closer to ending this. If I let her go, I'd have to hunt her down and try to figure out how to blow the mines. Or . . .  
And then she's doing her odd little dance back out of the circle and I have no time. I loose the arrow without hesitation, without a true understanding of what I am aiming towards, and as I turn, I probably wouldn't have been able to tell anyone which target I aimed at. It isn't until I hear the explosion, feel the ground suddenly slam into my chest, and notice the tears chilling my cheeks that I know. I know which option I took, and I hoped I could someday forgive myself.  
The ringing in my ears is loud, louder than I had ever experienced, but my run had gotten me far enough away not to retain any significant damage. At least I hope it did. I pick myself up off the ground, pulling small leaves and twigs off my hands, and take my first few staggering steps away from the scene. I need to get out of here.  
On unsteady legs I flee into the trees, following the path back to the fallen logs I left Rue under. My usually light footing is messy, and I don't even realize my poorly placed step until I hit the rocks I was running on. My hands sting and I feel a warm pool gather beneath then. Blood red and seeping into the crevices of the rocks, leaving a trail for someone to follow. Shit. I can't waste my precious water, my cleansing pods already running low, so I grab some moss off a nearby tree and try to sponge up mess. I hiss as the dirt and plant gets caught in my cut-up palms.  
I stuff the bloodied moss into my pocket, thinking to burn it at my next opportunity, and grip my bow firmly, the curves feeling familiar in my hands and helping to ground me. I try to imagine myself back in my woods, with Gale covering my back and Prim waiting at home. I can almost see it too, when I hear the unmistakable sound of another cannon.  
I stop running, trying to put together who it could be. Ultimately, I realize I'll find out tonight during the anthem. When all the deaths of the day are shown. When Foxface's picture will be broadcasted all over the arena. When the recaps will show me murdering her over and over again. When I might just have to explain myself to Rue.  
No, I decide. I can't tell her. I won't. Rue never saw the horde, she didn't know about the bombs. I could tell her about the bombs in the ground but fail to mention Foxface's presence. Therefore, if I do lie, it will be a lie of omission. Anyway, do I really have to report back yet?  
"What took you so long?" Rue calls as I get closer. "I heard two cannons, I thought they had killed you!"  
"I was fine, Rue," I say, trying to calm her down, but the water in her eyes and the dried tear tracks on her cheeks say it's going to be harder than that to reassure her. "How about we make up a signal? That way if we get separated we can call each other."  
Rue suddenly looks up at me. "I know what to do," she says. "It's something we do in the evenings in the orchids." She cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled four notes. The birds around us start to repeat the tune, flapping happily at the new song. As the birds fly to and fro, the notes begin to carry further and further into the forest. This is perfect.  
"So, how'd you do it?" Rue asks later, over a small meal of berries and roots.  
"There were bombs placed around the outside of the stockpile. I blew them up," I recite my tale.  
"Were the Careers around? Did you see them?"  
"Most of them were still in the tents on the far side of the clearing. They are still weak from the Tracker Jacker venom."  
"Who were the two deaths then?"  
"I don't know."  
"But if you were there-"  
"Rue! I said, I don't know," I yell, frantic with the need to deny and escape the truth of my actions. Looking at Rue shrink back from me is hard; I don't want her to be frightened of me, but couldn't tell her. "Rue," I begin in a much softer tone. "I'm sorry, I just don't want to talk right now."  
With that, I walked over to a tall tree and began to climb.  
~Earlier this Year~  
Over the last several months, I had walked in on Peeta doing nearly everything, been in every room of his house multiple times, and helped with even the most mundane tasks like planting the garden Peeta seemed hell bent on having, but through it all, I had yet to see this. It's a Monday, not one of our usual meeting days nor had I decided prior to this morning that I was going to come. In other words, Peeta had no idea. I would never had imagined it would be a big deal. Peeta was always put together; his actions defying the precedent that every Victor had laid before him. So, when I walked in moments ago, and was greeted by the smell of alcohol, I was shocked to say the least.  
I call his name, glancing around the living room. When I receive no answer, I head upstairs. He isn't in either his room or his painting studio. "Peeta!" I yell, running back down the stairs, worry over taking my logic.  
I burst into one of the last unsearched rooms in the house: a small bathroom meant for guests on the main floor. Two glass bottles of distorted colors lie empty on the floor and so does Peeta. I reach down to shake him awake but he barely mumbles back. Frustrated, I yank back the shower door and drag him in. Flipping the handle to cool, I let the freezing water poor over his sweat and alcohol drenched body. His eyes fling open and he spurts extra water out of his mouth.  
I thought he would sputter, get angry or yell—that's what most drunks do. I at least thought the water would sober him up. Instead he just sits there, in the freezing water in the dead of winter. Barely glancing up at me, Peeta's shoulder hunch and start to shake. Although it could have been the chills, something inside me knows its sobs that are making him rock like that.  
I reach into the shower to turn it off, hissing when my hand has to travel through the pelting ice to get to it. This was probably not my best idea. "Peeta?" I ask gently, not sure how to deal with this and looking towards the open bathroom door. I could just leave, but one more look at Peeta and I know that if I leave, he'll probably freeze to death. The drunken boy had done nothing to get out of the water, or even to dry off. He just sat there crying.  
Channeling my mom, I think through what I need to do. I need to get him dry, its my fault he's wet in the first place. Then I need to get him warm and somehow sober him up.  
I grab one of the thick clouds off of the towel rack and hand it to him, only to have his hand drop to the shower floor, soaking it. I groan, kicking the wall. Why was this so difficult? Starting another plan, I twist his malleable body around to face me and throw him onto the bathmat.  
Handing him another towel, I force him to make eye contact with me. "Peeta, get your clothes off and dry yourself. I'll get you some clothes and then start a fire. Dry your head first."  
When he finally emerges from the bathroom, the living room fire place is roaring. Its some sort of gas fueled fire because the wood is fake; however, it still gives off heat. Although his clothes are changed, they still stick to his body and water drips off his hair and down his face and neck. At least he followed some of my orders.  
He attempts to sit next to me on the rug, but really just ends up falling. It doesn't seem to bother him, though, as he lets his eyes be drawn to the fire. He's still crying, and from the look of his eyes, he's probably been crying all night. I don't say anything. I wouldn't even begin to know how to ask him what's wrong.  
After a few minutes of me watching silent tears trickle down his face from the corner of my eye, he finally says something. "I killed him, Katniss."  
My head snaps to fully look at him.  
"I killed Teller," he whispers.  
Moving slowly, half of me trying to talk myself out of it, and half of me telling the other this was long overdue, I wrap my arms around him like I do when Prim cries. His wet head falls heavily onto my shoulder, reminding me of his heavily intoxicated state—as if I needed a reminder. And although my shoulder is now wet, I can't be too irritated.  
I'm mostly confused. Maybe this feels okay because I am the one holding him. Maybe that's why I am allowing Peeta to touch me more than anyone has, except Prim, since my dad died. Or maybe it's just Peeta. Whatever it was, I didn't mind it.  
"It's going to be okay, Peeta."  
His head twists on my shoulder so it is his face pushing against me. "It will never be okay, Katniss. I don't care if it was self-defense or whatever Haymitch says. I killed him. He's dead because of me."  
He sounds so hollow that I can't help tightening my hold on him.  
"Drinking doesn't make it better," he continues. "I thought I could be like Haymitch. I'm not. I can't not feel. How do you not feel, Katniss?"  
I jerk. "I feel," I reply, indignantly.  
But drunken Peeta just shakes his head. "Not in the same way."  
And I can't tell if he's talking about how I could never understand what it felt like to kill someone, or if he is referencing the interview that we both ignore so diligently. Either way, he is right. I'll never understand what he is going through, and I'll never fall in love. The girl who wanted love died a long time before Teller did. No matter what these little emotions and moments mean, they don't mean I like Peeta. Never in that way.  
~Present~  
"What are you doing?" Rue asks, finding her way up to the branch beside me.  
"Watching the sunset," I respond, not taking my eyes off the artificial color.  
"Why?"  
I breathe in deeply, trying to find solace in it, as if he would suddenly appear beside me and let me know everything was going to be fine. I had killed someone, and not in self-defense. I killed Foxface and it wasn't okay. It will never be okay.  
"Because it's orange."  
"Is that your favorite color?"  
"No," I almost laughed. "I hate orange." I could feel her questioning eyes on me and gave in after a few seconds. "It's Peeta's," I conceited.  
"Oh," she says, happily. "Mine's pink. I saw a dress once, on one of the foremans' daughters. It was pink and white. I told my stylist about it, but she said I looked best in blue."  
I smiled gently at the innocent comment, silently cursing her stylist, whoever she was. How could she not give a dying twelve-year-old the chance to wear something she had probably dreamed of her whole life? "I think you'd look beautiful in a pink dress."  
"As beautiful as you?"  
This time, I did laugh. "I'm hardly beautiful, Rue."  
She frowned up at me, "Peeta thinks you are."  
"Peeta also thinks wrestling is a metaphor for life and spends all day in a hot kitchen breathing in the excess yeast; he's not exactly a credible source."  
Rue giggles, but is interrupted by the anthem in the sky. Oh no, I hadn't even realized how dark it had gotten. I don't know if I can watch this.  
The first image to appear is that of the boy from District 3. He must have been the cannon that I heard on the way back. He wasn't close enough to the blast to have been killed, but perhaps he was injured and bled out? Or maybe he was killed by the Career Pack once his boobietrap didn't work. I hope against hope it isn't the first one. I was a nervous wreck waiting for the day I had to face Foxface's death, I didn't need another.  
The second is Foxface. Her picture seems to be brighter than the one before and my eyes blur over as I unnoticeably avert my eyes from the holo. I feel Rue gasp from beside me and I shut my eyes against the truth.  
I don't open them to see the last face, I couldn't deal with it at this point. Maybe I'll ask Rue tomorrow. Tonight, I just was to go to sleep. Pulling out the sleeping bag from my pack, I offer it to Rue. She nods and we carefully climb into the bag. I can rest more assured tonight now that we were off the ground.  
"Did you see her, Katniss?"  
My blood freezes in my veins as Rue brings up the one subject I wished to avoid.  
"Yeah," my voice is strangled but I hope she doesn't notice.  
"Isn't it crazy? Three in one day."  
"Yes, Rue. There were multiple deaths today."  
"Was she at the pile, Katniss? Who do you think killed her?"  
"Rue!" I snap. "I don't want to talk about this."  
She shrinks away and I immediately regret my tone.  
I groan. "I'm sorry, Rue. I didn't mean it."  
"No," she says meekly. "I know I talk too much."  
"Rue," I prompt, but get no response from the girl. Searching for another topic, I say, "You know, Katniss and Rue are both plants, but where katniss is an edible plant, Rue is a weed."  
"It is not!" she cries. "It's an herb, my mother told me so."  
I pretend to think about it, secretly happy she seems to be talking again. "Nope," I say. "Its a weed."  
"Katniss!"  
I laugh and pull her closer, and she snuggles in, apparently forgiving me, ready for sleep. We stay quiet, allowing our minds to slow and our vision to begin to cloud over.  
"What's yours?" comes her muffled and groggy voice from beneath my arm.  
"My what?"  
"Your favorite color?" she yawns.  
I look down at her, knowing she's seconds away from falling asleep and say with a smirk, "Orange." Just because I can.


End file.
